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THE  STRANGER 


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THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

HEW  YORK  •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  ■  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


THE  STRANGER 


BY 

ARTHUR  BULLARD 

Author  of 

"A  Man's  World,"  "Comrade  Yetta,"  "The 

Barbary  Coast,"  "The  Russian 

Pendulum,"  etc. 


JI3eto  gorfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1920 

All  right*  reserved 


COPYRIGHT.  1920, 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


S«t  up  and  electrotyped.     Published,  April,  1920 


;h  ♦ 


•   .  «  . 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  The  Stranger  is  Announced  .  <•     .     .     .      1 

II  Eunice  Bender   .     ...     ^     ....     14 

III  Eunice  and  the  City    .......     33 

IV  Sunday  Breakfast 53 

V    Love  and  the  Others 62 

VI    The  Flat .98 

VII  Thanksgiving       .........  110 

VIII    The  Next  Morning 125 

IX  The  Stranger's  Story  ........  133 

X    The   Call .147 

XI    The  Dinner .162 

XII     Helen's  Evening 182 

XIII  The  Cafe .  196 

XIV  The  Stranger's  "Keep" 214 

XV    Frank  Goes  Home :.     .  221 

XVI    Eunice  and  the  Garden 249 

XVII    Helen  Does  Her  Duty 264 

XVIII    Win  and  the  Stranger 289 

XIX    Parting 304 

XX    Frank  and  the  Stranger 315 

XXI    Adieu 327 

Epilogue .»>*.»*  331 


4279<M 


From  a  dialogue  between  Alcuin  of  York,  Philosopher-in-ordi- 
nary  to  Charlemagne,  and  Pepin,  the  Emperor's  son. 

Pepin:     "What  is  Life!" 

Alcuin:    "The  joy  of  the  Happy — 
The  Expectation  of  Death." 

Pepin:     "What  is  Death?" 

Alcuin:    "An  inevitable  Event — an  uncertain  Journey — 
Tears  for  the  Living— the  Thief  of  Man." 

( 
Pepin :     "What  is  Man  ?" 

Alcuin:    "The  Slave  of  Death— 
A  passing  Traveler — 
A  Stranger  in  his  own  abode." 


j  •iao>>.*o 


THE  STRANGER 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  STRANGER  IS  ANNOUNCED 

"  Wasn't  Eunice  well  enough  to  come  to-night?  " 

There  was  a  note  of  affectionate  concern  in  Frank 
Lockwood's  voice  as  he  asked  about  the  missing  guest. 

"Yes/'  Lillian,  his  wife,  echoed,  somewhat  more 
perfunctorily.     "  How  is  Eunice?  " 

Although  the  table  had  been  set  for  six,  there  were 
but  two  guests,  Helen  Cash  and  Winslow  Mathews. 
Helen,  who  shared  an  apartment  with  Eunice  Bender, 
answered,  and  her  voice,  which  was  ordinarily  res- 
onant and  assured,  sounded  dreary. 

"  Nothing  serious.  No  better,  no  worse.  She  had 
a  wrangle  with  the  printer  this  afternoon  and  was  too 
tired  to  come  out  again." 

Eunice  was  so  dear  to  them  all  that  a  constraint  and 
silence  fell  on  them  for  a  moment.  Lillian  was  the 
first  to  break  it. 

"  Pete,"  she  said,  "  telegraphed  at  the  last  minute 
that  he  had  to  stay  in  Albany." 

This  started  the  conversation  on  the  prospects  of 
getting  some  reform  bills  through  the  legislature  in 
tin's  1913  session.  It  was  this  work  which  had  kept 
Peter  McGee  from  joining  them.     It  interested  Helen 

l 


2     \  : ; ;•  :.'.: :'}'.]  j  t!h-e;  STRANGER 

very  intimately  in  her  own  work.  "  Win  "  Mathews, 
who  was  McGee's  close  friend  and  roommate,  was  also 
deeply  interested.  Frank,  who  was  an  artist,  less 
so,  and  Lillian  not  at  all. 

It  was  a  tiny  dining  room,  quite  full  with  the  four 
of  them  —  it  would  have  been  crowded  with  six. 
When  the  house  had  been  built  a  couple  of  genera- 
tions ago,  this  room  had  been  planned  as  a  "  back 
parlor."  In  those  prosperous  days,  when  the  district 
had  been  fashionable,  the  large  room  behind  had  been 
the  dining  room,  but  when  Frank  and  Win  had  come 
to  the  city  together,  ten  years  earlier,  they  had  found 
the  house  crowded  with  a  dozen  Italian  families. 
These  had  been  dispossessed,  and  Frank  had  turned 
the  original  dining  room  into  a  studio. 

This  little  room  where  they  sat  had  only  one 
window,  looking  out  on  a  narrow  air  shaft,  but  it  was 
amply  supplied  with  doors  —  double,  sliding  doors, 
fore  and  aft,  leading  into  the  parlor  and  studio,  and  a 
single  door,  opposite  the  obscured  window,  into  the 
hallway.  Its  very  smallness  rendered  it  cozy  and  in- 
timate, and  it  was  made  gay  by  some  oils  on  the 
wall  —  sketches  by  some  of  Frank's  friends.  There 
was  none  of  his  work  there. 

The  table,  set  very  formally,  in  an  uptown,  conven- 
tional way  —  a  manner  obviously  inspired  by  the  pop- 
ular fashion  magazines  —  seemed  out  of  tune  with  the 
Bohemian  setting.  So  did  the  hostess.  Lillian  was 
beautiful.  She  was  beautifully  gowned,  for  the  ad- 
vice of  her  artist  husband  more  than  offset  the 
slenderness  of  her  dress  allowance.  There  was  a 
touch  of  grande-dame  formality,  a  certain  queenli- 


THE  STRANGER  IS  ANNOUNCED        3 

ness,  in  her  manner  of  presiding  which  was  in  sharp 
contrast  to  the  easy  intimacy  of  the  other  three. 

Helen  Cash  did  not  have  this  attraction  of  beauty. 
She  was  rather  above  the  medium  in  all  dimensions, 
but  not  in  the  least  cumbersome.  Her  movements 
were  a  shade  too  precise  to  be  gracious.  But  while 
she  was  not  at  all  pretty,  she  caught  and  held  atten- 
tion. She  was  more  of  a  person  than  Lillian.  She 
had  a  real,  if  less  obvious,  appeal.  She  would  have 
done  very  well  as  a  model  for  a  "  Victory  "  or  "  The 
Spirit  of  the  Republic."  She  had  least  charm  at  close 
quarters. 

This  was  also  true  of  her  voice.  It  was  a  commit- 
tee voice.  It  could  read  a  report,  cite  statistics,  state 
a  policy  with  f>ersuasive  force.  It  sounded  best  from 
halfway  back  in  a  large  hall,  but  it  was  a  trifle  over- 
loud  for  intimate  badinage. 

In  her  world  Helen  was  a  great  success.  She  was 
financial  secretary  —  which  means  money  raiser  —  of 
the  National  Association  for  Labor  Legislation.  She 
was  one  of  the  most  highly  paid  women  in  social  serv- 
ice work.  She  had  "  made  good."  Pete  McGee  had 
nicknamed  her  "  Spot  Cash." 

Frank  Lockwood  did  not  dress  like  a  genius,  for 
Lillian  insisted  on  a  certain  degree  of  neatness. 
Only  his  hair  —  which  the  winds  had  blown  about 
too  much  for  any  reform  —  had  escaped  her  control. 
His  first  love  had  been  the  sea,  and  New  Ipswich, 
Maine,  where  he  had  spent  his  youth,  where  his 
ancestors  had  lived  for  generations,  had  left  its  mark 
on  him.  There  was  the  gray  of  the  misty  northern 
sea  in  his  eyes. 


4  THE  STRANGER 

His  eyes  were  what  made  every  one  love  him. 
People  who  had  never  heard  his  name  were  affected 
by  them.  His  eyes  had  done  the  trick  for  Win 
Mathews,  had  pulled  him  out  of  the  cultured  shelter 
of  Boston  Back  Bay  into  a  world  of  tense  emotions 
and  stark  realism.  They  had  won  the  ill-tempered, 
dishonest,  drunken  old  woman  who  had  been  their 
laundress,  and  changed  her  into  a  devoted  slave. 
They  had  drawn  Lillian  from  another  planet  into  a 
strange,  gypsy  world  where  she  could  never  be  at  home. 

They  were  sad  eyes,  for  they  had  seen  beauty  and 
now  had  to  look  at  other  things.  There  was  a  picture 
of  his,  "  Moonlight  on  the  Maine  Sea,"  in  the  Cor- 
coran at  Washington,  his  portrait  of  Lillian  in  the 
Metropolitan,  and  a  mural  piece  in  the  Luxembourg. 
A  few  years  ago  all  the  world  of  art  critics  were  wait- 
ing eagerly  for  his  next  picture.  But  now  he  had  a 
contract  as  an  illustrator  at  five  thousand  a  year. 
He  was  supporting  his  wife. 

Pete  McGee  said  he  never  could  remember  whether 
Win  was  thirty-six  or  sixty-three  —  it  depended  on 
which  side  of  his  face  you  were  talking  about.  At 
thirty,  Win's  hair  in  a  one-sided  way  had  begun  to 
turn  gray.  His  left  eyebrow  now  was  almost  white. 
It  had  a  bizarre  effect,  which  arrested  attention.  It 
seemed  as  if  premature  old  age  had  brought  an  almost 
flippant  gaiety  and  sparkle  to  this  side  of  his  face, 
while  the  other  eye  was  plodding  along  in  the  pur- 
suit of  knowledge  as  a  respectable  eye  should  do. 

Mathews'  novels,  all  about  the  life  of  New  York  — 
there  was  a  string  of  six  of  them  —  were  attracting 
more  and  more  readers.     The  first  one  had  sold  about 


THE  STRANGER  IS  ANNOUNCED        5 

five  thousand,  the  last  one  had  reached  twenty  thou- 
sand, and  his  new  one  was  running  as  a  serial.  He 
had  none  of  the  erratic  temperament  of  his  friend, 
Lockwood.  Lillian  would  not  have  had  any  trouble 
with  his  hair;  it  was  naturally  orderly.  The  flame 
which  burned  within  him  was  less  brilliant  than  his 
friend's  but  more  steady^ 

His  manner  was  easy,  almost  too  casual.  He  was 
so  deeply  interested  in  everybody  else  that  he  had  no 
self-consciousness  —  and  a  certain  self -consciousness1 
is,  after  all,  the  basis  of  good  manners.  Most  people 
found  him  hard  to  get  acquainted  with  and,  too  easily 
discouraged,  called  him  unresponsive  or  even  rude. 
But  those  who  persevered  and  reached  through  to  in- 
timacy found  him  every  time  better  than  when  they 
had  left  him  last. 

From  bills  before  the  legislature  in  Albany,  the 
discussion  had  come,  with  the  dessert,  to  municipal 
politics.  Lillian  was  bored.  She  was  relieved  when 
the  meal  was  over  and  she  could  shift  her  guests  into 
the  parlor  and  superintend  the  placing  of  the  coffee 
tray  on  an  exquisite  —  but  secondhand  —  directoire 
serving  table. 

"  Frank,"  Helen  said,  for  in  spite  of  Lillian's  strik- 
ing beauty,  these  friends  generally  addressed  them- 
selves to  her  husband,  "  every  time  I  see  that  coffee 
set,  I  fall  more  in  love  with  it."  s 

Lillian,  busy  with  the  pouring,  did  not  follow  the 
conversation.  She  was  vexed  with  Helen  for  admir- 
ing these  funny,  old-fashioned,  lusterware  coffee 
things  at  this  moment,  for  she  was  planning  to  per- 
suade Frank  to  buy  a  new  set  more  like  her  mother's. 


6  THE  STRANG  Eli 

At  last  her  father's  inventions  had  begun  to  make 
money  and  her  parents  were  on  the  highroad  to  riches; 
they  had  moved  to  the  Drive.  Her  mother  had  a 
solid  silver  coffee  pot,  gold-washed  inside.  She 
wondered  if  Helen's  admiration  of  this  luster  ware 
would  be  so  outspoken  if  she  had  known  that  Frank 
had  bought  it,  almost  for  nothing,  in  a  pawnshop. 

This  was  the  principal  puzzle  of  life  to  her.  Why 
did  Frank  and  his  friends  value  so  many  frayed, 
soiled,  secondhand  things?  She  liked  things  that 
were  smart  and  new  and  costly.  Many  people  who 
came  to  see  her  wrent  into  raptures  over  the  little 
house,  praising  it  because  it  was  old.  To  her  mind 
it  was  tiny,  so  inconspicuous,  so  almost  shabby. 

To  be  sure,  the  house  had  been  thoroughly  renovated 
at  the  time  of  her  marriage,  but  this  glorious  restora- 
tion had  not  come  to  the  district  as  a  whole.  A  few 
neighboring  houses  had  been  redeemed  by  other 
artists,  a  few  new  tenements,  dignified  by  the  name 
of  apartment  houses,  had  been  built,  but  nobody 
could  pretend  that  it  was  a  fashionable  part  of  town. 
Although  Frank  and  his  friends  liked  the  district, 
she  wanted  to  move. 

When  she  proposed  it,  Frank  always  asked  an  ir- 
relevant question,  about  where  in  thunder  had  she  hid 
his  blue  tie,  or  what  were  they  going  to  have  for 
dinner. 

"  My  dear,"  he  would  say,  when  she  insisted,  as 
she  always  did,  "  we  simply  can't  afford  to  move  up- 
town on  five  thousand  a  year.  Where  did  you  say 
you'd  put  that  tie?  " 

It  was  one  of  half  a  dozen  subjects  on  which  Frank 


THE  STRANGER  IS  ANNOUNCED        7 

was  adamant.  She  could  not  charm  him,  nor  tease 
him,  nor  distress  him  into  changing.  While  Lillian 
would  admit  quite  freely  to  her  mother,  more  guard- 
edly to  other  married  women,  that  Frank  was  not 
the  perfectly  docile  husband,  she  had  a  proper  pride 
which  made  her  hide  from  any  unmarried  woman  — 
Helen  for  instance  —  her  dissatisfactions.  She  held 
her  head  high. 

She  sat  in  the  stiff  Gothic  chair  in  which  Frank 
had  painted  her.  There  were  other  chairs  which  she 
found  more  comfortable,  but  he  had  said  that  this 
one  became  her  best  and,  uncertain  of  her  own  taste, 
she  always  trusted  his.  But  being  beautiful  loses 
half  its  charm  among  people  who  are  familiar  with 
your  beauty. 

"  If  you  people  are  through  with  politics,"  she 
broke  in  at  the  first  opening,  "  I  want  to  discuss 
Thanksgiving.  We  can't  give  up  our  annual  picnic. 
Whom  shall  we  invite?  " 

"  Why,  the  same  old  crowd,  of  course,"  Helen  said. 

"  We  haven't  got  enough  men,  now  that  Pete  has 
deserted." 

"  There's  Lancaster  and  Frank  and  Win." 

"  But,"  Lillian  insisted,  "  there  are  four  of  us  girls." 

"  Of  course,  it's  never  sure  about  Eunice,"  Helen 
said.     "  She  may  not  be  up  to  a  party." 

"  We  must  have  her,"  Frank  said  emphatically,  "  if 
she's  not  feeling  fit,  we'll  spend  the  day  in  the  flat  — 
or  postpone  the  fiesta.  We  must  have  her.  There's 
no  hope  of  Pete?  " 

"  No,"  Win  groaned,  with  business  of  wiping  away 
tears,  "he's  lashed  to  the  mast." 


8  THE  STRANGER 

"  Isn't  it  fierce  the  way  the  old  gang  is  breaking 
up,"  Frank  said.  "  Remember  how  keen  Mary  always 
was  on  our  sticking  together!  *  Just  for  a  lapful  of 
baby  she  left  us;  just  for  a  husband  to  flaunt  in  our 
face/  " 

"  You  started  the  stampede/'  Win  remarked  dryly. 

"  But,  Win,"  Helen  said,  to  steer  out  of  dangerous 
waters,  "  you  must  know  some  men." 

"  Dozens  of  them,  hundreds  of  them.  But  none 
who  would  quite  fit.  Thanksgiving  Day  should  be  a 
reunion  of  old  pals.  It's  an  unlucky  day  to  make  new 
acquaintances." 

"  You  or  Frank  have  got  to  find  some  one,"  Lillian 
said ;  "  it  don't  much  matter  who.  I've  got  a  gor- 
geous idea.  Generally  we  gave  a  theater  party  on 
Thanksgiving.  But  we  ought  to  have  some  variety. 
Everything  is  Oriental  these  days.  The  Russian 
ballet  —  those  plays,  i  Mecca '  and  '  The  Caliph's 
Daughter.'  Let's  make  it  a  Persian  supper.  Let's 
have  a  contrast  —  fancy  dress  —  an  Arabian  Nights' 
Entertainment  on  good  old  Puritan  Thanksgiving 
Day!" 

Win  jumped  up  and  snapped  his  fingers. 

"  I've  an  idea!" 

"Aman?" 

"  Yes.  A  regular  man.  He's  Oriental  enough. 
His  name  is  Lane  —  Donald  Lane  —  a  queer  chap. 
He  has  the  apartment  across  the  hall  from  our  dig- 
gings. He's  been  there  for  six  months  or  more.  It's 
the  old  story  —  next  door  in  New  York  is  as  far  off  as 
Patagonia.  I've  often  passed  him  in  the  hallway, 
but  we  never  spoke  till  recently. 


THE  STRANGER  IS  ANNOUNCED  9 

u  Weird  people  come  to  see  him  —  Orientals  —  the 
way  Russian  refugees  camp  on  Lancaster's  door- 
step     A  few  weeks  ago  I  ran  into  him  going  down 

in  the  elevator ;  he  had  two  of  them  with  him  — 
tall,  gaunt  men,  with  great  turbans,  white  robes, 
flowing  beards  —  talking  some  outlandish,  guttural 
language.  He  put  them  in  a  taxi  at  the  door.  '  Who 
are  your  friends?'  I  asked.  ' Moors,'  he  said  — 
just  like  that  —  without  any  explanation,  as 
though  it  were  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world. 
We  walked  over  to  Broadway  together.  He  told 
me  that  he  was  the  secretary  of  some  Oriental 
society. 

"  After  that  I  kept  an  eye  on  him.  There's  a  young 
fellow  living  wkh  him.  He  wears  ordinary  clothes 
and  a  red  fez  —  a  Turk,  I  imagine.  About  a  month 
ago  I  came  home  late  one  night  —  Pete  was  up  at 
Albany  —  and  was  greeted  by  the  strangest  music 
I  ever  heard  —  weird  but  beautiful.  I  could  not 
guess  the  instrument.  At  first  it  sounded  like  a 
flute,  but  there  were  some  full  cello  notes  and  now  and 
then  a  heart-piercing,  high,  violin  note.  It  sounded 
just  outside  my  window. 

"  I  tiptoed  across  the  room  and  looked  out  —  the 
queerest  sight  this  little  old  New  York  ever  pro- 
duced !  This  chap,  Lane,  was  sitting  cross-legged  on 
the  fire  escape,  staring  up  at  the  faintest  new  moon, 
working  a  barbaric  fiddle.  There  was  a  round  drum- 
head, like  a  banjo,  and  a  short  neck.  Instead  of 
strings  there  was  a  wisp  of  horsehair;  he  fingered 
this  and  sawed  across  it  with  a  bow  of  one  string. 
It  was  just  the  reverse  of  our  violin.     And  even  as 


10  THE  STRANGER 

I  watched  him,  I  would  have  sworn  that  some  of  the 
notes  came  from  a  reed. 

"  When  he  saw  me  he  was  mightily  embarrassed  — 
hoped  his  noise  had  not  disturbed  me.  I  crawled  out 
on  the  balcony  and  looked  at  the  instrument.  It  was 
a  beautiful  piece  of  craftsmanship,  all  chased  with 
elaborate  arabesques  and  inlaid  with  gold  and  ivory. 
He  told  me  its  name,  which  begins  with  three  r's  and 
ends  with  three  b's —  with  hardly  any  vowels  in  be- 
tween. I  asked  him  what  tune  he  was  playing  and 
he  said  it  wasn't  a  tune,  just  something  he  made  up  as 
he  went  along.  \  It's  the  first  beautiful  night  I've  seen 
in  New  York.  The  moon  makes  the  buildings  across 
the  Square  look  a  little  like  mountains,'  he  said,  by 
way  of  explanation  —  as  if  that  were  sufficient  excuse 
for  sitting  out  on  the  fire  escape  and  serenading  the 
moon  on  an  inverted,  heathen  fiddle ! 

"  I  asked  him  where  his  home  was,  and  he  seemed 
surprised.  Apparently  the  idea  of  having  a  home 
had  never  occurred  to  him.  So  I  asked  some  ques- 
tions about  music,  and  he  opened  up  at  once  and  in- 
vited me  inside  his  window.  Oriental  music  and 
poetry  seem  to  be  his  specialty.  He  did  not  talk  much 
about  himself,  but  I  gathered  that  he  had  traveled  all 
over  the  East.  He  spoke  familiarly  of  Samarkand, 
Ispahan,  Cashmere,  and  places  like  that. 

"  At  last  I  put  my  foot  in  it  by  saying  that  I  liked 
the  Rubaiyat.  He  flared  up  at  that.  Omar,  it  seems, 
was  a  lightweight  —  a  minor  poet  among  the  Persians. 
And  Fitzgerald,  he  said,  had  mistranslated  him 
shamefully.  The  quatrain  about  '  Man's  forgiveness 
ask  —  and  take  '  offended  him  most.     '  Not  even  a 


THE  STRANGER  IS  ANNOUNCED  11 

wine  drinker  like  Omar,'  he  said,  '  would  have  written 
such  a  blasphemy.'  He  seemed  to  think  that  any  one 
who  liked  the  Rubaiyat  was  a  lowbrow  —  hardly 
worth  talking  to. 

u  I  did  not  see  him  again  for  some  time,  but  a 
few  days  ago  he  suddenly  forgave  my  literary  tastes, 
knocked  at  my  door,  and  asked  if  I  liked  Turkish  ciga- 
rettes. He  gave  me  a  handful  —  the  best  I've  ever 
smoked.  He  said  a  friend  of  his  makes  them,  and  I 
ordered  a  couple  of  hundred.  They're  unbelievably 
cheap  —  I'll  send  you  some. 

"  I  don't  know  anyhing  about  him,  except  what 
I've  told  you.  He's  a  queer  one.  But  he's  intelligent, 
really  erudite,  I  judge,  in  his  specialty.  He's  pain- 
fully shy  —  seems  to  want  to  be  friendly  and  not 
quite  certain  how  it's  done.  I  guess  he's  a  solitary 
chap  —  unused  to  company.  I  don't  suppose  that 
he'd  fit  in  very  well  —  generally  —  probably  knows 
nothing  and  cares  less  about  the  things  we're  keen 
on.  But  if  Lillian  wants  an  Oriental  spread,  he  might 
help. 

"  I  tell  you  what.  Come  to  breakfast  Sunday.  We 
haven't  had  one  of  our  old-fashioned,  Sunday  break- 
fasts since  Pete  fell  by  the  wayside.  I'll  invite  Lane, 
and  you  can  all  look  him  over.  If  he  passes  the  ex- 
amination, Lillian  can  ask  him  to  dinner  and  get  ac- 
quainted.   Yes?    No?" 

After  a  little  more  discussion  and  repeated  assur- 
ances from  Win  that  this  was  all  he  knew  about  the 
Stranger,  they  played  a  few  rubbers  of  bridge. 

After  eleven  the  party  broke  up,  and  Win  walked 
home  with  Helen. 


12  THE  STRANGER 

"  It's  funny  about  Lillian,"  she  said,  "  I  haven't 
sized  her  up  yet.  Still  —  after  all  these  years  —  she 
seems  an  outsider.  It  startles  me  when  she  says  *  us 
girls/  Somehow  I  never  think  of  her  as  one  of 
1  us.' " 

"  She  never  will  be,"  Win  said  bitterly. 

"  I  wonder  why  I  don't  like  her  more.  She's  so 
beautiful !  Every  time  I  see  her,  I'm  surprised  again 
—  she's  breath-taking." 

"  Oh,  Frank  arranges  that.  He's  stage  manager. 
If  he  didn't  design  her  clothes,  she'd  look  like  a  chorus 
girl." 

"  Come,  come !  "  Helen  laughed.  "  She  is  beautiful. 
You  must  admit  that,  even  if  you  don't  like  her." 

"  Well,  perhaps  she  is  —  but  I  dislike  her  just  the 
same.  I  know  it's  jealousy  —  of  course,  I'm  jealous. 
Ten  years  and  more  Frank  and  1  chummed  together, 
then  she  butted  in.  And  besides,  it  rumples  up  my 
aura  to  hear  her  say,  '  It  don't '  and  '  I  have  got.'  " 

"  Frank  seems  contented." 

"  What's  that  to  do  with  it?  "  Win  demanded  sav- 
agely. "  What's  happiness  compared  to  what  he's 
given  up?  He  wasn't  only  a  painter,  he  was  the 
painter  —  the  pure  essence  —  and  now  he's  an  illus- 
trator !  What's  happiness  —  a  pretty  wife  to  kiss  — 
compared  with  the  place  he  held  —  and  the  promise? 
He  used  to  be  a  rare  soul  and  now  he's  a  meal  ticket ! 
It's  a  crime !  And  besides  I'm  not  so  sure  that  he  is 
happy." 

They  had  come  to  the  door  of  Helen's  apartment. 

"  You  ought  to  know  better  than  to  start  me  think- 


THE  STRANGER  IS  ANNOUNCED        13 

ing  about  Lillian  at  this  time  of  night,"  Win  growled. 
"  Now  I'll  go  to  bed  with  a  grouch." 

"  Well,  to  change  the  subject,  how  about  this 
Stranger?    You  think  we'll  like  him?" 

"  I  don't  take  any  responsibility.  It's  up  to  you 
people  to  decide.  I  said  Thanksgiving  is  an  unlucky 
day  to  make  new  acquaintances." 

"  We'll  see,"  Helen  said.  "  He  sounds  interesting. 
I'm  curious  about  him.     Good  night." 

"  Good  night,"  Win  called  back  from  the  sidewalk, 
as  Helen  let  herself  in  with  her  latchkey.  "  Love  to 
Eunice.  Tell  her  I'll  expect  her  Sunday  morning. 
We'll  need  her  advice  about  this  Stranger." 


CHAPTER  II 

EUNICE   BENDER 

There  was  a  silent  and  mysterious  tragedy  back  of 
Eunice  Bender.  Nature  had  condemned  her  mother's 
stock  —  the  Ripley  family  was  dying  out.  It  was  a 
strange  matter,  for  they  had  always  held  an  hon- 
ored place  among  their  neighbors;  their  passing,  one 
by  one,  had  been  mourned  by  the  whole  community. 
We  would  expect  nature  to  cherish  a  breed  so  gen- 
erally beloved.  But  at  some  time,  in  some  unknown 
way,  some  obscure  law  of  life  had  been  violated.  The 
verdict  was  plain. 

Eunice's  mother  and  her  sister,  Mrs.  Clarkeson, 
were  the  only  two  of  that  generation  —  and  it  had 
been  a  large  family  —  who  had  grown  to  maturity. 
Mrs.  Bender  had  died  in  childbirth,  and  Mrs.  Clarke- 
son  had  not  entirely  escaped  the  family  sentence,  for 
she  and  her  large  brood  of  children  were  "  sickly." 

Eunice's  memories  of  her  father  were  slight,  for  he 
had  been  killed  in  a  railroad  accident  when  she  was 
five,  and  even  before  that  she  had  been  taken  into 
the  Clarkeson  family.  Her  uncle,  Mr.  Clarkeson,  was 
town  clerk  and  had  no  further  ambitions  nor  apti- 
tudes, so  her  small  income  from  the  insurance  money 
not  only  had  to  meet  her  own  expenses,  but  also  helped 
to  pay  his  chronic  debts.  In  this  cheerless  atmos- 
phere Eunice  had  grown  up. 

14 


EUNICE  BENDER  15 

As  no  one  had  expected  her  to  live  so  long,  she  had 
had  no  formal  education.  Being  always  considered 
too  frail  to  do  anything,  they  had  left  her  free  to  do 
what  she  pleased.  And  the  thing  which  had  pleased 
her  most  was  to  draw  pictures  of  her  young  cousins. 
To  persuade  them  to  sit  still,  while  she  sketched  them, 
she  told  them  stories,  which  often,  half  unconsciously, 
twisted  themselves  into  rhythm  and  rhyme. 

Even  in  this  hobby  of  drawing,  she  had  no  instruc- 
tion—  there  were  no  teachers  of  such  things  in  the 
village  of  West  Newleigh.  There  were  not  even  any 
noteworthy  pictures  to  learn  from.  The  half  tones 
in  the  magazines  were  her  only  approach  to  art.  So 
often  too  weak  to  be  about,  never  strong  enough  for 
a  scramble  in  the  woods,  she  had  not  even  been  able  to 
come  to  close  quarters  with  the  beauty  of  nature. 
The  flowers  in  the  Clarkesons'  yard  were  few  and 
scraggly.  They  kept  chickens.  And  the  children  pre- 
ferred cats  to  wild  birds. 

The  one  bright  spot  in  this  dismal  existence  was 
Helen  Cash.  Her  parents  lived  next  door,  and  the 
two  girls  had  been  friends  from  earliest  childhood. 
But  chronic  invalidism  had  kept  Eunice  at  home, 
when  Helen  fared  forth  to  school. 

Helen's  college  had  been  near  by.  She  lived  at 
home,  going  to  her  classes  by  trolley,  and  so  was  able 
to  "  look  in  "  on  Eunice  every  day.  It  was  not  any 
motive  of  good  works,  of  "visiting  the  sick  and  in 
prison,"  which  brought  her.  She  liked  Eunice.  Too 
healthy  herself  ever  to  take  note  of  it,  she  found  a 
strange  appeal  in  her  friend's  weakness.  The  Clarke- 
son    family   was   shiftless,   and   the   house,   overfull 


16  THE  STRANGER 

of  children,  was  none  too  orderly.  But  somehow 
Eunice's  room  was  always  bright  —  a  place  to  which 
it  was  a  privilege  to  come. 

We  carry  with  us  type  pictures  of  those  we  love, 
composites  of  all  our  memories,  in  which  only  the 
salient  and  significant  things  stand  out.  Sometimes, 
of  course,  Eunice  would  be  up  and  about,  but  in 
Helen's  picture  she  was  always  in  her  narrow  white 
bed.  There  was  as  motif  an  orchidlike  fragility,  an 
other-worldly  loveliness,  and  for  dominants,  the 
haunting  beauty  of  great  eyes  and  two  amazing  braids 
of  golden  hair  —  hair  that  Melisande  would  have 
envied. 

Generally,  when  Helen  "  looked  in,"  the  children 
were  about,  and  Eunice's  fine,  long  hands  were  busy 
cutting  out  paper  dolls  for  them  or  drawing  pictures 
to  illustrate  the  story  she  was  telling.  The  young- 
sters always  disappeared  when  Helen  came.  It  was 
for  this,  more  than  anything  else,  that  she  pitied 
Eunice  —  having  to  spend  so  much  time  with  children. 

When  they  had  gone,  Eunice  would  turn  to  Helen 
those  great  eyes  inquiringly.  There  were  always 
questions  in  them :  "  How  does  it  feel  to  be  really 
alive?"  "What  is  the  world  outside  like?"  And 
Helen,  seated  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  would  tell  her 
all  about  life.  At  the  age  of  ten,  she  had  explained 
the  universe  to  Eunice  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
West  Newleigh  Grammar  School.  After  she  went  to 
college,  her  discourses  took  on  a  more  academic  tone. 
But  always  —  even  at  ten  —  Helen  had  been  quite 
sure  of  her  judgments,  and  it  had  never  occurred  to 
Eunice  to  question  them. 


EUNICE  BENDER  17 

So,  although  her  outlook  on  life  was  limited,  Eunice 
knew  Helen's  life  with  unusual  intimacy.  She  was 
ever  an  approving  audience,  which  made  it  easy  for 
Helen  to  talk,  to  recount  all  her  adventures,  to  tell 
—  everything. 

Eunice  had  heard  In  detail  of  the  tribulations  of 
freshmen.  She  had  been  told  how  the  dogmatic  re- 
ligion of  the  village  Sunday  school  had  come  to  grief 
under  scrutiny  from  the  scientific  point  of  view.  She 
had  been  told  about  the  men  who  danced  with  Helen, 
and  those  who  wanted  to  go  on  dancing.  Helen  had 
been  proposed  to  twice  and  had  confided  all  the  de- 
tails. Eunice  had  learned  a  very  precise  and  vigor- 
ous formula  of  refusal.  She  had  also  read  the  de- 
spairing letters  of  the  rejected  suitors. 

Eunice  had  much  time  to  read,  in  the  long  even- 
ings after  the  children  were  a-bed,  and  she  had  studied 
all  of  Helen's  textbooks,  had  played,  not  unsuccess- 
fully, with  her  examination  papers.  As  she  had  to 
puzzle  her  way  through  all  this  without  a  teacher, 
some  of  this  long-distance  education  sank  into  her 
mind  more  durably  than  into  Helen's. 

Above  all,  she  had  learned  from  Helen  a  familiar- 
ity with  the  modern  feminist  attitude  toward  life. 
Helen  would  have  to  earn  her  living  when  she 
finished  college.  Her  father  was  the  village  doctor, 
the  Pennsylvanian  countryside  was  healthy,  and  there 
were  other  children  to  educate.  Helen,  far  from  be- 
ing dejected  by  this  prospect,  gloried  in  it.  She  be- 
lieved in  the  "  economic  independence  of  women." 

Mrs.  Cash  had  planned  that  Helen  should  teach  in 
the  village  high  school,  but  Helen  had  other  plans. 


18  THE  STRANGER 

"  I  won't  stay  in  West  Newleigh,"  she  said  to 
Eunice,  "  teaching  things  that  bore  me  to  children 
who  aren't  interested  —  waiting  for  some  man  to 
marry  me !     No,  I  want  to  do  something  worth  while." 

Merely  "  earning  a  living  "  was  too  meager  a  goal 
for  her  ambitions.  She  wanted  to  do  it  largely  and 
splendidly,  not  only  for  herself  and  her  own  comfort, 
but  also  as  a  demonstration  —  on  behalf  of  woman- 
hood. The  field  of  activity  which  she  had  chosen  for 
herself  was  "  Social  Service,"  what  an  earlier  genera- 
tion called  "  Philanthropy."  "  Municipal  House- 
keeping "  and  phrases  from  Mrs.  Gilman's  "  Woman 
and  Economics  "  were  always  on  her  lips.  Here  were 
large  opportunities  for  women.  "  It's  a  new 
frontier,"  she  told  Eunice ;  a  there  is  a  demand  for 
social  pioneers." 

In  the  Easter  vacation  of  her  senior  year,  Helen 
went  on  a  voyage  of  adventure  to  New  York,  and  she 
brought  back  to  Eunice  the  great  news  that  she  had 
found  a  job.  It  was  an  investigation  into  the  uses 
and  abuses  of  employment  agencies.  She  was  to 
begin  work  as  soon  as  she  left  college  and  she  was 
to  live  in  a  settlement  on  Second  Avenue. 

Eunice  was  in  bed,  when  Helen  brought  this  news. 
She  had  expected  it.  Helen  wanted  to  go  and  Helen 
always  got  her  way.  Eunice  knew  how  marvelous  the 
opening  seemed  to  her  friend.     Of  course  she  was  glad 

about  it,  and  yet She  had  to  clinch  her  hands 

very  tightly  under  the  bedclothes  not  to  spoil  Helen's 
joy  by  letting  her  see  how  gloomy  and  very  lonely  life 
would  be  in  West  Newleigh  without  her. 


EUNICE  BENDER  19 

"  Tell  me  about  New  York,"  she  said  to  avoid  the 
unpleasant  thought. 

"  Oh,  Eunice,  I  can't  —  it's  too  wonderful !  The 
women  in  the  Settlement  are  real  people  —  modern. 
Every  one  hard  at  work  at  something  that  counts.  I 
had  a  long  talk  with  Mrs.  Gilman ;  she's  every  bit  as 
good  as  her  books.  She  fixed  up  this  job  for  me.  It'll 
be  a  stepping-stone  to  other  work  —  better  and  more 
worth-while.  There  are  a  dozen  girls  at  the  Settle- 
ment, all  interesting.  The  ones  I  liked  best  were 
Irene  Penton  and  Mary  Dutton,  a  kindergartner  and 
a  trained  nurse.  They're  only  a  few  years  older 
than  I,  but  already  they've  made  a  reputation  for 
themselves.  Between  them,  they've  cut  down  the  rate 
of  infant  mortality  in  the  district  —  so  that  every- 
body is  talking  about  it.  Doctors  come  from  all  over 
—  even  from  Europe  —  to  study  their  methods.  Now 
they're  working  for  a  maternity  hospital.  It  must 
be  wonderful  to  do  things  like  that  —  to  be  somebody. 
They're  individuals.  They  have  real  lives  —  person- 
alities of  their  own. 

"  The  men  they  introduced  me  to  are  just  as  fine. 
All  of  them  have  some  real  achievements  to  their 
credit.  There  is  an  artist,  Frank  Lockwood,  who  — 
they  say  —  is  very  good.  And  a  novelist,  who  lives 
with  him,  Winslow  Mathews.  I've  brought  down  one 
of  his  books  for  you  to  read.  It's  about  a  Settle- 
ment —  a  good  story.  I  liked  him  very  much.  Then 
tlwre's  a  professor  of  ethnology,  from  Columbia,  Lan- 
caster. I  did  not  see  much  of  him,  but  they  say  he's 
awfully  clever.    And  a  funny  Irishman  named  McGee. 


20  THE  STRANGER 

He's  always  laughing  and  joking,  but  they  all  think 
highly  of  him.  I  didn't  quite  understand  what  he 
does  —  it's  something  in  connection  with  the  legisla- 
ture in  Albany. 

"  The  finest  thing  is  the  way  the  men  treat  the 
women  —  as  equals,  comrades.  No  silly  flirting. 
They're  not  solemn;  they're  serious.  You  see  they're 
all  hard  at  work  —  on  something  important,  some- 
thing that  counts.  They're  the  kind  of  people  I  want 
for  my  friends.  And  now  I've  the  chance  to  live  with 
them,  to  work  with  them.  It's  perfectly  wonderful. 
My  dream's  come  true." 

For  an  hour  or  more  she  sat  there  on  the  foot  of 
Eunice's  bed,  telling  about  these  new  friends,  about 
her  new  work.  The  rush  of  her  talk,  hot,  hastily 
phrased  pictures  of  the  city,  quick,  incisive  descrip- 
tions of  people,  bewildered  Eunice.  How  fatiguing 
it  must  be,  she  thought,  to  be  really  alive,  to  have  such 
thrilling  experiences. 

And  Helen's  recital  was  thrilling,  for  there  is  a 
note  more  stirring  than  that  of  triumph  —  it  was  all 
about  glorious  beginnings.  There  is  always  some- 
thing poignant  and  moving  in  the  hopes  of  starting 
out.  The  Song  of  Victory  is  never  so  thrilling  as 
"he  chant  du  depart."  And  Helen's  talk  of  New 
York  was  a  paean  to  battles  yet  to  win. 

So  life  had  led  Eunice  —  drearily  —  through  a 
quarter  of  a  century.  The  only  high  lights  had  been 
furnished  by  this  friend,  who  had  advantage.  Helen 
was  a  forth-faring  person  utterly  undaunted,  and 
Eunice  attributed  these  qualities  to  health.  It  had 
never  occurred  to  her  that  a  well  person  might  be 


EUNICE  BENDER  21 

a  coward.  "  Courage  "  and  u  health  "  she  thought 
meant  the  same  thing.  And  so  she  could  not  think 
of  herself,  so  pitifully  ill,  as  heroic.  But  the  Great 
God  Himself,  if  He  took  notice,  must  have  admired, 
almost  envied,  her  courage  as  she  faced  this  new 
misery  of  loneliness  after  Helen's  departure.  The 
long,  monotonous  days  and  nights  were  so  dismally 
uniform  that  even  the  occasional  spells  of  pain  were 
a  relief.  "  Oh,  I'll  write  —  often,"  Helen  had  said ; 
"  of  course,  I'll  write  all  about  it."  So  the  postman 
became  the  great  personage  in  Eunice's  life. 

But  from  the  very  first,  Helen's  letters  were  ir- 
regular —  there  was  such  a  swirl  of  things  to  do  in 
New  York !  It  had  been  so  much  easier  to  "  look  in  " 
than  it  was  to  find  time  to  write.  One  week  there 
was  only  a  postcard,  with  a  picture  of  Brooklyn 
Bridge  and  a  penciled  line,  "  Too  rushed  to  write." 

Helen  did  her  best  to  keep  up  the  correspondence. 
Now  and  then  something,  which  less  valiant  people 
might  have  called  "  homesickness,"  overtook  her  and 
she  wrote  at  length  to  Eunice.  In  this  manner  the 
stay-at-home  became  acquainted  with  Helen's  work 
and  her  new  friends. 

There  was  a  long  letter  about  the  maternity  hos- 
pital. It  was  to  be  the  keystone  in  the  arch  which 
Ihlen's  two  best  friends  were  building.  Frank  Lock- 
wood  had  drawn  some  "stunning"  posters  for  it. 
AY  in  Mathews  had  "handled  the  publicity."  Pete 
McGee  had  pulled  wires  till  the  Board  of  Estimate 
had  apportioned  some  city  funds  for  its  upkeep. 
And  there  was  a  great  deal  about  how  Helen,  over 
and    above   her   regular   job,    which    she    described 


22  THE  STRANGER 

as  "very  easy,"  helped  to  raise  money  for  the 
building. 

"Raising  money,"  it  soon  developed,  was  Helen's 
forte.  When  the  Investigation  of  Employment  Agen- 
cies was  finished,  she  became  financial  secretary  for 
a  "  Deaf  and  Dumb  Asylum,"  which  had  fallen  into 
a  rut  and  was  being  outstripped  in  the  scramble  for 
alms  by  newer  and  brisker  organizations.  She  wrote 
a  good  deal  about  this  job. 

"  It's  the  first  really  important  work  I've  had ;  it 
gives  me  a  chance."  She  mailed  Eunice  some  of  the 
"  literature  "  she  was  sending  out,  and  told  in  detail 
of  the  expedients  and  maneuvers  by  which  she  drew 
renewed  attention  to  this  neglected  institution.  "  It's 
queer.  The  Charity  Organization  Society  has  done  a 
lot  to  work  out  efficient  methods  to  distribute  relief, 
but  as  far  as  I  can  see,  nobody  has  used  much  brains 
on  raising  money.  Most  of  the  charities  stick  to  the 
old-fashioned  practice  of  sending  out  printed  or  mime- 
ographed—  impersonal  —  circulars  to  a  big  mailing 
list  on  the  chance  that  one  out  of  ten  will  bring  in  a 
small  check.  Eighty  per  cent,  of  the  income  of  this 
asylum  came  in  driblets  of  five  or  ten  dollars.  I 
believe  in  direct  personal  appeals;  it's  a  lot  more 
efficient.  There  are  a  great  many  rich  people  who 
suffer  from  deafness  —  I  go  after  them.  Already,  I've 
brought  in  twenty  checks  for  five  hundred  and  two  for 
a  thousand.  Everybody  seems  surprised,  but  it's 
only  common  sense." 

Once  every  year  Helen  came  home  for  Christmas, 
and  these  were  red-letter  occasions  for  Eunice. 
"  There  are  so  many  things,"  Helen  said,  "  that  it's 


EUNICE  BENDER  23 

hard  to  write  about."  One  of  these  subjects  was 
Pete  McGee.  His  name  had  occurred  frequently  in 
her  letters,  especially  after  she  had  left  the  Deaf  and 
Dumb  Asylum  for  work  with  the  Child  Labor  Com- 
mittee, in  which  he  also  was  interested.  This  new 
work  threw  them  constantly  together.  At  first, 
Helen  had  been  enthusiastic  about  him,  but  in  a  letter 
a  few  weeks  before  one  of  her  visits  home,  she  had 
written  that  he  had  proposed  to  her.  She  had  given 
no  details  and  her  only  comment  was  "  I'm  sick  about 
it." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  when  Eunice  brought  up  the  sub- 
ject, "  it  did  make  me  sick.  I'd  put  him  on  such  a 
high  plane.  He's  not  clever  like  Win,  nor  so  in- 
tellectual as  Lancaster;  but  in  so  many  ways  he's 
more  effective  than  either  of  them  —  he  gets  things 
done !  I  like  him  —  a  lot !  And  now  he  goes  and 
spoils  everything  by  trying  to  make  love  to  me  —  just 
like  an  ordinary  man. 

"  Of  course  I  stopped  him  as  soon  as  I  understood, 
but  he's  always  joking  and  it's  hard  to  know  when 
he's  in  earnest.  I  really  was  surprised  —  and  not 
a  bit  pleased.  It  was  so  fine  working  together,  a 
frank,  free  friendship  —  never  thinking  about  such 
things.  Now,  I'll  always  have  to  be  on  my  guard. 
How  I  hate  it !  " 

In  this  secondhand  acquaintance,  Eunice  had  been 
it  interested  in  the  artist,  Frank  Lockwood;  she 
wauled  most  to  hear  about  him. 

"  Everybody  likes  Frank,"  Helen  said,  "  more,  I 
guess,  than  I  do.  They  say  he's  a  wonderful  painter, 
bin  it  all  seems  sort  of  ineffectual  to  me.     I  wish  I 


24  THE  STRANGER 

knew  more  about  such  things.  *  Art '  seems  to  me  so 
indefinite,  so  hard  to  value.  The  others  think  it  is 
very  important,  but  I  can't  see  that  it  gets  anywhere. 
I  can't  find  any  standard  to  judge  it  by.  People  rave 
over  one  picture  and  despise  another  and  I  don't 
understand  why.  I  suppose  I  haven't  any  taste. 
But  Frank  must  be  clever,  people  who  pretend  to 
know  say  he's  a  genius.  He's  won  a  lot  of  prizes. 
His  last  one  —  Win  says  it's  his  best  —  was  bought 
by  a  banker  named  Baldwin.  He  has  done  some 
amusing  Mother  Goose  decorations  for  the  Kinder- 
garten, and  now  he's  working  on  some  friezes  for  the 
auditorium  of  the  Settlement. 

"  I  like  him  —  nobody  could  help  liking  him  —  but 
I  don't  understand  him.  He  seems  way  up  in  the 
air  —  not  interested  in  real  things.  And  the  girls 
say  that  he  used  to  drink  —  horribly.  But  he's 
always  sober  now." 

A  letter  written  a  few  weeks  after  Helen's  return 
to  the  city  was  devoted  to  Win.  "  He's  interested  in 
art,  too,  in  literature.  He  lives  with  Frank  in  the 
Studio  on  the  Square,  not  far  from  the  Settlement. 
He  writes  well.  I'm  sending  you  an  article  of  his 
about  the  street-car  strike.  It's  real,  it  will  help  the 
men  a  lot.  I  wish  he'd  stick  to  this  sort  of  work. 
It's  something  concrete  and  useful  —  more  so,  I  think, 
than  his  novels.  They're  clever  and  entertaining,  but 
somehow  they  seem  to  me  —  well,  less  real.  He's  a 
little  like  Frank.  I  don't  mean  that  he  drinks  too 
much,  not  that  way,  but  now  and  then  he  seems  ab- 
sent-minded—  sort  of  gazing  off  into  space." 

Eunice,  propped  up  on  her  pillows,  often  "  gazed 


EUNICE  BENDER  25 

off  into  space."  There  was  a  very  wonderful  make- 
believe  land  beyond  the  four  walls  of  her  little  room, 
where  everybody  was  strong  and  healthy.  It  did  not 
seem  to  her  a  very  heinous  fault.  She  tried  to  say 
this  in  her  answer,  but  Helen  retorted  sharply. 

"  I  haven't  time  to  gaze  off  into  space.  I  don't  see 
how  any  serious,  active  person  can.  This  is  a  real 
world  we  live  in  and  so  much  of  it  needs  to  be  put 
right.  Why  waste  time  in  idle,  abstracted  contempla- 
tion ?  Just  as  one  example  —  Irene  and  Mary  have 
decreased  the  number  of  babies  who  die  out  of  every 
hundred  born  in  this  district.  Think  what  infant 
mortality  means!  All  the  pain  and  energy  and  ex- 
penses of  childbirth  wasted  —  sheer  waste!  Gazing 
off  into  space  won't  help.  If  the  nation  really  got 
down  to  the  job  and  did  everywhere  what  these  two 
girls  have  done  here  in  this  district,  we  could  save 
thousands  and  thousands  of  babies.  But  this  sort  of 
thing  means  work  —  not  dreams. 

"  There  are  so  many  ways  of  concrete  usefulness, 
how  can  people  find  time  to  paint  pictures  or  write 
novels  —  gaze  off  into  space?  Art  won't  keep  the 
babies  from  dying.  I  like  Frank  and  Win,  but  I've 
more  respect  for  Pete  —  in  spite  of  his  laughing  ways, 
he's  always  on  the  job,  getting  things  done  —  real 
tilings." 
In  another  letter,  Helen  wrote  of  Professor  Lan- 

ter.     "The  rest  of  us  call  each  other  by  our  first 
mimes  just  naturally,  but  somehow  nobody  does  him.  . 
II'  s  always  '  Lancaster.'     He's  a  bit  stiff  and  formal. 
He  comes  from  Oregon,  but  he  looks  like  a  New  Eng- 
ender—  more    than    either    Frank    or    Win.     He's 


26  THE  STRANGER 

rather  like  St.  Gaudens'  statue  of  the  Puritan.  He's 
the  type  you  respect  long  before  you  begin  to  like 
him.  He's  an  immensely  hard  worker,  way  up  at  the 
top  of  his  specialty  —  the  authority  on  American 
Indians.  He's  a  very  earnest  Socialist  and  has  swung 
us  all  into  the  party  except  Pete. 

"  They're  a  queer  pair,  living  together  in  an  apart- 
ment they  call  '  The  Diggings '  across  the  Square 
from  the  studio  —  not  agreeing  on  anything  except 
to  like  each  other. 

"  Pete  is  always  poking  fun  at  him ;  says  he's  so 
used  to  hard  work  that,  when  he  has  nothing  to  do,  he 
does  it  intensely.  He's  also  secretary  of  the  Society 
of  Friends  of  Russian  Freedom  —  very  much  inter- 
ested in  the  revolutionary  movement  over  there  and 
in  the  Russian  comrades  here  in  New  York.  One 
night  Pete  came  home  from  Albany  on  the  midnight 
train  and  found  three  Russian  refugees  sleeping  in 
his  bed !  Another  time,  Pete's  mother,  a  very  precise 
and  formal  old  lady,  came  to  town  and  wanted  to  see 
her  son's  rooms.  Pete  picked  her  up  at  her  hotel 
and  took  her  to  '  The  Diggings.'  When  he  opened 
the  door,  his  mother  was  nearly  scared  out  of  her 
life.  Lancaster  had  some  Hopi  Indians  from  a  Wild 
West  Show  —  he'd  been  adopted  into  their  tribe  — 
and  he'd  brought  them  to  his  room  to  do  a  snake  dance 
for  him.  He  was  catching  their  songs  in  a  phono- 
graph." 

More  than  once,  Helen  reverted  to  Pete's  unrea- 
sonableness. "  I've  explained  to  him  a  dozen  times," 
she  wrote,  "  that  I  don't  want  to  get  married.  It  isn't 
that  I'm  refusing  to  marry  him,  I'm  refusing  matri- 


EUNICE  BENDER  27 

mony  in  the  abstract.  I  simply  can't  consider  it  now. 
This  love  business  is  just  like  writing  poetry  —  I 
haven't  time.     I'm  too  busy.     There's  too  much  to  do. 

"  I'm  hurt  at  him  —  very  much  hurt  —  always 
spoiling  things  this  way.  It  isn't  as  if  he  were  a 
stranger,  who  didn't  understand  how  I  feel  about  it. 
He  knows.  We've  talked  it  over  a  hundred  times;  I 
don't  want  to  stop  work  to  get  married.  It's  not 
merely  personal  ambition  —  not  just  to  make  a  name 
for  myself.     It's  much  broader  than  that. 

"  We  women  simply  must  struggle  for  our  place 
in  the  world  —  for  recognition.  Here  I  am  just  be- 
ginning. I've  made  a  good  start,  but  I've  just  begun 
and  it  isn't  an  easy  job  I've  undertaken.  I'm  build- 
ing up  a  new  profession,  I'm  creating  a  job.  A  social- 
service  financier  —  that's  what  Pete  calls  me  him- 
self. It  isn't  any  special  cleverness  of  mine  that's 
succeeding,  but  steady,  hard  work  —  grinding.  I 
want  to  become  an  expert  at  it  and  now  I'm  learning 
the  job. 

"  It  would  all  be  wasted  —  everything  I've  learned, 
all  the  work  I've  done  —  if  I  should  stop  now.  Per- 
haps after  a  while  —  some  time  in  the  future  —  per- 
haps. But  now,  I  simply  can't  think  of  getting  mar- 
ried. 

"  Men  are  queer  about  this  feminism.  Pete  has 
<lmie  a  lot  of  work  for  suffrage,  but  he  forgets  all 
about  the  ideal  —  is  quite  willing  to  mix  up  all  my 
plans  —  just  because  he  happens  to  fall  in  love.  It 
m  ms  to  me  appallingly  selfish. 

"  We're  all  distressed  about  Mary.  She's  decided 
to  get  married  and  leave  us.     The  man's  all  right,  he 


28  THE  STKAMJEK 

was  house  surgeon  in  the  maternity  hospital  at  first 
and  we  liked  him.  He's  gone  abroad  now  for  a  year's 
postgraduate  work  in  Vienna  and  is  coining  back  to 
start  practice  out  in  California.  It's  an  awful  blow 
to  us  all  —  especially  to  Irene.  They  were  such  a 
strong  team,  working  together  —  but  Mary  says  she 
wants  babies  of  her  own.  It's  tragic  —  this  continual 
struggle  between  personal  happiness  and  the  public 
welfare  —  the  Home  vs.  the  Commonwealth. 

" '  God  bless  me  and  my  wife, 
My  son  John  and  his  wife, 
Us  four, 
No  more.' 

"  That's  what  starting  a  home  means.  All  Mary's 
special  training  and  experience,  all  her  valuable  and 
unique  talents,  in  the  infant  mortality  work  must  go  • 
by  the  board.  It  seems  to  me  like  a  desertion.  Pete 
feels  just  the  same  about  Mary  as  I  do,  but  that 
doesn't  stop  him  from  trying  to  pry  me  loose  from  my 
job/' 

So  from  these  infrequent  visits  and  irregular  letters 
Eunice  got  news  of  the  world  beyond  West  Newleigh. 
To  be  sure  it  was  a  very  small  sector  of  the  great 
world  on  which  Helen  reported,  but  it  seemed  very 
wonderful  to  Eunice  —  a  world  of  youth  and  health, 
of  ardent  hopes  and  noble  efforts. 

Her  one  escape  from  the  all-pervading  gloom  of 
the  Clarkeson  household  was  a  rustic  bench  under  a 
great  elm  tree  beyond  the  village.  On  her  "good 
days,"  when  she  was  able  to  be  up,  she  always  walked 
there.     The  beauty  of  her  view  was  the  one  treasure 


EUNICE  BENDER  29 

of  her  youth,  and  in  a  way  it  was  a  private  treasure, 
for  no  one  used  this  bench  except  lovers  after  night- 
fall. Her  neighbors  did  not  care  much  for  scenery, 
but  Eunice  loved  the  place. 

West  Xewleigh,  in  itself  unlovely,  sat  on  the  crest 
of  a  rolling  hill  in  eastern  Pennsylvania.  There  was 
a  broad  outlook  from  this  seat,  across  a  gentle  valley, 
ten  miles  to  the  next  ridge  and  the  horizon  beyond 
was  the  purple  gray  of  higher  hills.  The  view 
held  no  indication  of  its  date.  It  might  have  been 
the  English  countryside  in  the  days  when  the  good 
king  Alfred  was  driving  out  the  Danes.  Much  of 
the  Danube  country,  through  which  the  Crusaders 
marched  on  their  way  to  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  must 
have  looked  very  like  this  bit  of  modern  Pennsyl- 
vania. 

It  was  here  that  Eunice  read  and  reread  Helen's 
letters.  It  was  here  that  she  brought  the  books  and 
pamphlets  Helen  sent.  She  read  with  care  —  and 
much  perplexity  —  the  books  on  Socialism.  She  was 
relieved  to  find  that  they  had  nothing  in  them  about 
bomb-throwing,  but  —  knowing  no  other  life  than 
that  of  her  simple  village,  they  had  little  meaning  for 
her. 

She  could  not  have  understood  them,  and  the  re- 
ports of  investigations  and  so  forth,  which  Helen 
sent  at  all  if  it  had  not  been  for  Win's  novels.  He 
visualized  and  made  alive  the  people  tabulated  in  the 
statistics,  and  also  the  people  who  gathered  them. 

u  The  Six  Hundred  "  was  the  one  of  his  books  she 
liked  best.  Again  and  again  she  had  read  the  open- 
ing paragraphs. 


30  THE  STRANGER 

"  The  race,"  he  had  written,  "  is  rather  like  an  onion :  so  many 
layers  fitting  tightly  about  the  next  smaller  one  —  layer  after 
layer  down  to  the  tiny  germ  in  the  middle.  Within  the  race 
are  scores  of  great  nations,  within  each  nation,  provinces;  they 
in  turn  divided  and  subdivided  into  counties,  townships,  neighbor- 
hoods—  families.  And  of  course  each  one  of  us  is  the  central 
kernel  of  his  own  universe. 

"  This  concentric  grouping  is  not  only  geographic.  We  live  not 
only  in  '  our  street,'  '  our  town/  '  our  country/  but  also  in  '  our 
religious  belief/  '  our  political  creed/  perhaps  most  of  all  in  '  our 
trade/ 

"  Few  of  these  circles  within  circles  are  more  interesting,  more 
worthy  of  study,  than  the  social  workers.  They  inhabit  no  fixed 
frontiers.  Theirs  is  a  fellowship,  not  of  territorial  chance,  but 
of  common  aspirations.  There  is  some  mystic  magnetism  which^ 
draws  to  New  York  at  some  time  in  their  career,  almost  every 
one  who  has  a  passion  to  make  this  old  world  of  ours  a  cleaner, 
more  wholesome,  and  happier  place. 

"  Very  few  of  these  social  workers  are  New  York  born.  They 
come  as  often  from  Kansas  or  the  Coast  as  from  the  thirteen 
original  States.  A  surprising  number  of  them,  including  the 
calmest  and  the  most  fervid,  come  from  Chicago.  In  the  Chari- 
ties Building  you  can  hear  the  accent  of  every  State.  But  no 
matter  where  they  were  born,  no  matter  what  twang  or  burr 
sticks  to  their  tongues,  they  are  intensely  New  Yorkers. 

"  They  are  the  city  become  self-conscious.  They  have  investi- 
gated the  East  Side  and  the  West  Side.  They  understand  the 
transportation  problems  of  Brooklyn.  They  know  all  the  police 
captains  of  the  Bronx,  which  ones  are  honest  and  which  ones 
intend  to  get  rich.  If  you  chance  to  be  interested  in  the  viola- 
tions of  the  tenement-house  law  in  Queens,  or  the  percentage  of 
wayward  girls  in  the  city  institutions  of  the  Borough  of  Rich- 
mond who  are  feeble-minded,  you  can  find  one  of  these  social 
workers,  who  has  written  a  doctor's  thesis  on  the  subject. 

"No  matter  what  you  are  seeking  among  them,  you  will  find 
youth.  Reverence  for  things  old,  for  retrospection,  is  at  a  dis- 
count among  them.     They  never  produced  but  one  historian  — 


EUNICE  BENDER  31 

and  he  proposed  a  new  philosophy  of  history.  The  principal 
preoccupation  of  this  group  is  the  unborn  future. 

"  If  you  make  inquiries,  you  will  find  many  people  —  socially 
successful  people  — who  never  heard  of  these  social  workers.  I 
have  called  them  '  The  Six  Hundred '  because  of  their  high 
daring,  but  it  also  serves  to  distinguish  them  from  the  better 
advertised  '  Four  Hundred/  who  live  uptown.  They  are  not 
fashionable.  Other  people  —  prosperous  people,  with  a  vested 
interest  in  things  as  they  are  —  will  tell  you  that  these  social 
workers  are  freaks,  trouble  makers,  agitators  —  nuisances. 

-  There  is  a  fable  yet  to  be  written  on  what  the  lump  of  dough 
thought  about  the  cake  of  yeast.  Some  of  the  dough  probably 
cut  the  yeast  socially  and  ignored  it,  while  some  of  the  dough 
undoubtedly  objected  to  radical  innovation  and  edited  weekly 
journals  which  advocated  the  suppression  of  yeast.  These  social 
workers  are  a  ferment.  They  are  rejuvenating  all  the  implica- 
tions of  our  city  life  and  they  are  beginning  to  be  interested  in 
rural  problems.  Whether  the  dough  likes  it  or  not,  it  can  not 
resist  the  leavening. 

"  So  if  you  wish  to  know  what  New  York  City  and  the  broad 
continent  behind  it  will  be  like  fifty  years  hence,  go  to  these 
people.  Do  not  pay  attention  to  what  the  'best  people'  say 
about  them,  do  not  let  your  attention  be  distracted  by  the  queer 
clothes  they  sometimes  wear,  nor  by  the  vile  food  they  often 
eat  in  their  garrets,  but  study  their  dreams. 

"  Nothing  much  matters  to  them  but  their  dreams  —  and  bitter 
hard  work  to  make  them  come  true." 

Eunice  would  close  her  eyes  very  tightly,  when 
she  read  such  things.  She  did  not  like  to  cry,  but 
the  tears  always  tried  to  come  through  when  she  let 
herself  imagine  too  vividly  what  life  might  be  like 
for  her,  if  only  she  were  well.  From  Helen  and  her 
books  she  had  acquired  a  "  social  conscience."  She 
would  have  liked  to  be  a  part  of  this  rejuvenating 
ferment,  to  bear  her  share  in  bringing  the  New  Day. 


32  THE  STRANGER 

When  she  "  gazed  off  into  space,"  through  the  walls 
of  her  little  bedroom  or  from  her  seat  under  the  elm, 
the  make-believe  stage  and  beyond  was  not  set  to 
represent  the  glory  that  was  Greece,  nor  the  grandeur 
that  was  Rome.  She  daydreamed,  not  of  levees  at  the 
Court  of  St.  James  nor  of  dinners  at  Sherry's,  but  of 
walking  beside  Helen  in  the  great  city,  of  the  brave 
plans  and  earnest  efforts  of  her  friends  in  the  real 
world. 

It  was  not  often  that  Eunice  could  get  to  this  favor- 
ite spot;  once  or  twice  a  week  in  summertime.  The 
short  walk  was  always  a  great  event  for  her,  but  it 
did  her  more  good  than  any  medicine  —  just  to  sit 
there  an  hour  or  so  in  silence  and  read  and  dream. 

Many  a  languid  hour,  when  she  was  bed-bound,  wTas 
cheered  for  her  by  her  small  cousins.  On  account 
of  their  mother's  ill  health,  they  would  have  been  de- 
cidedly neglected  children  if  Eunice  had  not  fulfilled 
the  duties  of  a  nursery  governess.  But  it  did  not 
seem  an  unpleasant  task  to  her;  she  loved  children, 
and,  besides,  any  role  was  better  than  absolute  use- 
lessness.  The  Fates  had  been  unkind  to  her  in  not 
letting  her  know  how  the  wild  flowers  grow  on  the 
hillside.  But  she  knew  just  how  a  nose  grows  on  a 
little  boy's  face. 


CHAPTER  III 

EUNICE  AND   THE  CITY 

Four  years  had  passed  thus  monotonously  for 
Eunice,  since  Helen  had  left  on  her  quest  for  things 
u  worth  while,"  when  a  new  burden  was  laid  on  her 
frail  shoulders  —  poverty. 

Mr.  Clarkeson,  her  uncle,  a  tall,  gaunt,  strangely 
ineffectual  man,  came  into  her  bedroom  one  morning 
with  an  air  of  solemnity  and  harassed  depression. 
He  habitually  looked  on  the  bright  side  of  things,  but 
this  morning  the  sun  of  his  optimism  was  eclipsed. 
With  much  embarrassment  and  many  digressions 
after  meaningless  details,  he  explained  that  an  un- 
fortunate investment  had  wiped  out  all  that  was  left 
of  the  Ripley  heritage  and  Eunice's  insurance  money 
as  well.  There  was  nothing  left  for  them  all  but  his 
small  and  inadequate  salary  as  town  clerk.  He  was 
very  anxious  to  have  her  understand  that  it  had  been 
"  a  perfectly  sound  investment."  Had  he  cared  for 
his  wife's  money  and  hers  these  many  years  and  never 
l«>st  a  cent?    This  showed  that  he  was  safe  and  sane. 

For  the  details  of  the  catastrophe  Eunice  had  no 
comprehension  nor  interest ;  the  ruin  was  all  she  un- 
derstood. What  to  do  without  a  cent  in  the  world? 
She  could  not  live  at  her  uncle's  expense;  he  was  go- 
Ing  to  have  a  miserably  close  time  with  his  own  family. 
She  had  never  been  of  much  use  to  any  one  and  now 

33 


34  THE  STRANGER 

she  threatened  to  be  a  burden.  The  weakness  and  the 
pain  with  which  she  was  so  familiar  seemed  a  very 
small  thing  to  bear  compared  to  this. 

The  first  glimmer  of  hope  that  penetrated  her  be- 
wildered dismay  was  the  possibility  of  selling  some 
of  her  pictures  to  a  magazine.  Years  before  she  had 
sent  one  of  her  drawings  to  a  juvenile  competition  in 
The  Children's  World  and  had  won  a  prize  of  five 
dollars  and  a  life's  subscription.  Nowadays,  as  she 
showed  the  magazine  to  the  children,  she  often 
thought  that  her  pictures  were  just  as  good.  In  spite 
of  her  cloistered  life,  she  was  wrise  enough  to  realize 
that  grown-ups  will  pay  almost  anything  to  keep 
children  quiet. 

Without  taking  any  one  into  her  confidence,  she 
mailed  to  the  magazine  a  colored  drawing  she  had 
made  of  a  circus  parade.  The  principal  figure  was 
a  wonderful  giraffe,  which  would  have  shocked  any 
naturalist,  but  was  exactly  what  her  cousins  thought 
a  proper  giraffe  should  look  like.  Accompanying  it, 
she  sent  a  rhymed  story  for  the  picture  to  illustrate. 

The  next  weeks  were  breathless  for  her,  thrilling 
and  miserable.  At  best  she  hoped  for  five  or  ten  dol- 
lars, and  the  family  bills  were  running  up  appallingly. 
At  last  the  picture  came  back,  but  there  was  a  friendly, 
encouraging  letter  from  Mr.  Britton,  the  editor.  He 
said  that  he  liked  the  verse,  but  that  the  colors  she 
had  used  in  the  picture  made  reproduction  impossibly 
expensive.  "  You  are  evidently  unfamiliar  with  the 
processes  we  employ,  with  the  limitations  of  the  press 
and  of  printer's  ink.  I  am  sending  you  herewith  a 
copy  of  '  Picture  Printing/  which  we  have  compiled 


EUNICE  AND  THE  CITY  35 

for  the  benefit  of  our  contributors.  The  Children's 
World  makes  a  specialty  of  developing  new  talent. 
Your  picture  is  unavailable,  but,  if  you  will  redraw  it 
in  accordance  with  the  instructions  in  this  book,  we 
may  be  able  to  use  it." 

Eunice  found  the  book  hopeless.  She  did  not  know 
the  difference  between  half-tone  screens  and  the  three- 
color  process.  It  was  too  complicated  —  too  scientific 
—  to  understand.  She  tried  embroidery.  But  in 
four  weeks,  the  Women's  Exchange  sold  only  one  dol- 
lars worth  of  her  work  and  she  had  a  sick  suspicion 
that  the  rector's  wife  had  bought  that  out  of  kind- 
ness. She  had  some  fine  old  lace,  which  had  come 
to  her  through  at  least  three  generations  and  she  sold 
a  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  that  to  a  curio  shop  in 
Philadelphia  for  twenty -five. 

She  did  not  write  to  Helen  about  this  new  "  trouble." 
Why  should  she?  There  was  nothing  Helen  could 
do  about  it.  And  so,  having  no  one  to  confide  in, 
her  despair  was  all  the  darker. 

Two  days  after  she  had  written  to  the  State  Board 
of  Charities  to  learn  the  terms  of  admission  to  the 
poor  house,  she  received  a  "follow-up  letter"  from 
the  editor  of  The  Children's  World.  Mr.  Britton  had 
been  impressed  by  that  strange  giraffe,  his  own  chil- 
dren had  been  enthusiastic,  and,  what  was  more  im- 
pressive, they  had  liked  the  verses.  Now,  although  it 
is  the  adults  who  pay  the  subscription,  it  is  desirable 
to  have  something  in  a  children's  magazine  which  will 
interest  children,  and  the  contributors  who  can  write 
the  kind  of  verses  the  children  really  like,  instead 
of  the  kind  that  their  parents  think  it  would  be  nice 


36  THE  STRANGER 

for  them  to  like,  are  hard  to  find.  A  letter  of  encour- 
agement would  cost  Mr.  Britton  only  a  postage  stamp 
and  there  was  a  chance  that  if  this  unknown  Miss 
Bender  worked  hard  —  at  no  expense  to  him  —  she 
might  learn  how  to  make  a  good  deal  of  money  for 
him. 

The  letter  produced  the  effect  he  had  hoped  for,  it 
was  just  the  fillip  her  fainting  courage  needed.  It 
came  on  one  of  her  "  good  days  "  and  she  walked  down 
to  the  village  printing  shop  to  look  at  a  press.  There 
was  a  new  foreman,  who,  in  soberer  days,  had  been 
a  photo-engraver.  He  was  quite  willing  to  stop  work 
and  talk.  With  his  help  and  the  book  to  guide  her, 
she  set  to  work  again. 

This  new  effort  was  rewarded  by  a  check  for  fifty 
dollars.  Of  course  Eunice  was  elated  —  a  check  like 
that  now  and  then  would  more  than  pay  her  expenses. 
A  second  picture  was  soon  mailed  and  accepted. 

Just  as  Eunice  had  been  reluctant  to  tell  Helen 
of  her  misfortune,  she  was  too  modest  to  write  of  her 
good  luck.  Her  uncle,  who  was  hurt  in  his  manly 
pride  at  being  rescued  by  his  invalid  niece,  was  dis- 
couraging. It  was  one  of  the  few  things  about  which 
he  was  pessimistic.  He  warned  her  not  to  expect  too 
much,  they  would  soon  tire  of  her  foolish  pictures. 
It  is  often  easier  to  see  the  silver  lining  to  one's 
own  failures  than  to  another's  successes. 

Of  course  Eunice  quickly  developed  an  ambition. 
She  started  work  on  a  series  — "  The  Adventures  of 
Tit,  Tat,  Toe,  and  Little  Tot."  They  were  aged  five, 
four,  three  and  one.  Except  for  their  size  they  looked 
exactly  alike.     They  all  wore  white  Russian  blouses 


EUNICE  AND  THE  CITY  37 

and  broad  tyack  belts  and  wore  their  hair  k  la  Jeanne 
d'Arc.  The  three  older  children  had  a  nurse  named 
Hattie,  who  was  very  tall  and  thin.  Little  Tot  lived 
in  a  baby  carriage,  pushed  by  a  very  fat  nurse  named 
Mattie,  and  trailed  along  behind.  In  one  picture 
they  shot  off  firecrackers  on  the  Fourth.  In  another 
they  celebrated  Tot's  first  birthday  with  a  lawn 
party.  In  the  third  they  went  to  the  barnyard  to 
watch  the  milking.  Tat  had  always  thought  that 
cream  came  from  calves,  just  as  milk  comes  from 
cows.  Tit,  being  a  boy  and  so  much  older,  knew 
better  and  pointed  the  finger  of  scorn  at  her. 

Eunice  thought  that  fifty  dollars  was  a  generous 
pay  for  her  work  —  Mr.  Britton  had  said  so  —  and  it 
would  not  have  occurred  to  her  to  ask  for  more,  but 
just  as  she  was  finishing  the  third  of  this  series,  be- 
fore she  had  sent  in  any  of  them,  a  letter  came  to 
her  from  Toyland  offering  her  a  hundred  dollars  for 
a  contribution.  She  inclosed  this  letter  to  Mr.  Brit- 
ton, when  she  sent  the  first  three  of  her  series  to  him 
as  samples.  There  was  a  very  quick  response  from 
him  inclosing  a  contract  for  a  year's  exclusive  work 
in  The  Children's  World  —  twelve  of  the  "Tit,  Tat, 
Toe,  and  Little  Tot  "  pictures  and  verses,  at  a  hundred 
and  fifty  a  month. 

That  was  more  than  her  uncle  earned !  She  wrote 
about  it  in  her  next  letter  to  Helen  — "  I'm  doing 
some  drawings  and  verses  for  The  Children's  World. 
It's  easy  because  I've  always  done  it  for  fun.  They 
pay  well,  which  is  very  lucky,  for  Uncle  Tom  lost 
some  money  on  a  bad  investment  and  now  I  can  help 
them  a  little."     This  letter  reached  Helen  when  she 


38  THE  STRANGER 

was  off  on  a  trip,  organizing  child  labor  committees 
in  the  up-State  towns.  She  tried  once  or  twice  to 
buy  a  copy  of  The  Children's  World,  but  was  not  able 
to  find  one  and,  before  she  returned  to  New  York,  she 
had  forgotten  the  matter.  Eunice  did  not  allude  to 
it  again.  Of  course  she  felt  herself  wonderfully  for- 
tunate; but,  after  all,  drawing  pictures  for  children 
is  petty  business  compared  to  the  "  real,"  "  worth- 
while "  work  that  Helen  was  doing. 

When  "  The  Adventures  of  Tit,  Tat,  Toe,  and  Little 
Tot "  began  to  appear  in  The  Children's  World,  Mr. 
Britton  congratulated  himself  on  his  acumen.  In 
Eunice  he  had  discovered  a  gold  mine.  The  pictures 
had  "  caught  on."  He  decided  that  there  would  be  a 
rich  by-product  in  the  publication  of  this  series  as 
a  Christmas  book,  and  —  without  realizing  what  an 
upheaval  he  was  causing  in  her  life  —  asked  her  to 
come  to  New  York  to  discuss  the  matter. 

What  a  blaze  this  request  lit  in  Eunice's  brain! 
She  was  not  much  interested  in  the  book,  but  she  had 
always  wanted  to  visit  New  York.  She  had  never  per- 
mitted herself  to  realize  how  much  she  wanted  to  see 
Helen's  friends,  the  Settlement,  the  Maternity  Hos- 
pital —  above  all  she  wanted  to  see  Frank's  pictures. 
But  all  this  had  seemed  impractical.  She  could  not 
afford  the  expense  and,  besides,  she  had  no  excuse  for 
going ;  she  would  only  be  in  the  way,  interfering  with 
busy  people.  But  now,  she  had  business  of  her 
own. 

And  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  well  enough 
to  go.  The  thought  that  she  had  something  to  do, 
some  regular  work,  some  usefulness  in  the  world,  had 


EUNICE  AND  THE  CITY  39 

been  the  best  of  tonics  for  her.  In  the  years  before, 
she  had  often  stayed  in  bed,  because  there  was  no 
reason  to  get  up,  but  most  of  these  pictures  she  was 
drawing  were  set  out  of  doors  and  so,  wanting  to 
be  up,  she  found  it  easier  than  she  had  thought  and 
every  day  that  she  did  get  up  made  it  easier  the  next. 

This  momentous  letter  reached  her  on  a  Friday. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  looked  up  a  rail- 
road time-table.  She  wrote,  in  a  great  flutter  of  ex- 
citement, a  formal  letter  to  Mr.  Britton,  saying  that 
she  would  call  at  his  office  at  ten  on  Monday  morn- 
ing. She  wrote  at  length  to  Helen,  carefully  explain- 
ing that  business  of  her  own  was  bringing  her  to 
town  and  that  she  did  not  intend  to  be  a  bother. 
It  was  only  at  the  very  first  that  she  would  need  any 
help,  advice  about  a  hotel  and  so  forth.  But  she  did 
hope  that  Helen  could  meet  her  train. 

It  was  a  decidedly  frayed  young  person  who  got 
off  the  sleeping  car  in  Jersey  City  on  Monday  morn- 
ing. In  spite  of  the  lethargic  name  of  her  convey- 
ance, Eunice  had  not  closed  an  eye  all  night.  And 
trouble  began  for  her  at  once  —  she  had  not  counted 
on  having  to  cross  the  ferry  alone.  It  was  a  rather 
breath-taking  adventure,  but  it  was  soon  forgotten  in 
the  blank  dismay  of  not  finding  Helen  to  welcome  her 
on  the  Manhattan  side. 

Eunice  was  very  bewildered  as  she  stood  there  alone 
in  the  ferry  house.  The  city  had  taken  on  a  forbid- 
diiig  and  unfriendly  aspect.  She  had  expected  that 
Helen  would  meet  her  and  take  her  to  the  Settlement 
to  stay  —  but  she  could  not  go  there  uninvited.  The 
only  place  she  could  think  of  to  go  was  the  Hotel 


40  THE  STRANGER 

Santa  F6,  of  which  Helen  had  spoken.  It  was  at  least 
near  the  Settlement.  She  gritted  her  teeth  and  found 
a  cab. 

Why  had  Helen  failed  her?  This  question 
troubled  her  so  much  that  she  hardly  noticed  the  city, 
which  she  had  so  often  tried  to  imagine.  The  roar  of 
an  "  elevated  "  overhead  startled  her  into  attention 
for  a  minute,  but  through  most  of  the  ride  she  was 
only  vaguely  conscious  of  the  rumble  and  jar,  of  the 
feverish  hurly-burly  life  of  the  streets. 

After  a  forlorn  and  very  lonely  breakfast  —  be- 
tween every  unappetizing  mouthful  of  which  she  asked 
herself  what  could  be  the  matter  with  Helen  —  she 
resolved  to  telephone  to  the  Settlement  and  find  out. 
The  young  lady  at  the  other  end  of  the  line  gave  up 
what  information  she  had  reluctantly.  Miss  Cash 
was  out  of  town.  She  had  been  away  for  a  week. 
She  was  attending  a  Senate  hearing  at  Albany  on  the 
Child  Labor  Law.  She  had  not  left  word  when  she 
would  be  back.  Even  more  reluctantly  she  consented 
to  take  a  message  for  Miss  Cash  that  Miss  Bender 
was  stopping  at  the  Santa  Fe\ 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  Eunice  to  learn  that  Helen 
had  been  out  of  town  and  so  could  not  have  re- 
ceived her  letter.  This  was  a  very  much  more  com- 
forting explanation  of  her  lack  of  welcome  than 
the  thought  of  indifference  or  displeasure  at  her  com- 
ing. But  what  a  fool  she  had  been  not  to  wait  till  she 
was  sure  that  Helen  was  in  town.  She  had  counted 
more  than  she  had  realized  on  her  friend.  Now,  she 
would  have  to  do  everything  herself  —  alone.  This 
was  dismaying  —  but  dismay  would  not  get  her  any- 


EUNICE  AND  THE  CITY  41 

where,  so  she  stiffened  her  upper  lip  and  set  out 
bravely  to  the  office  of  The  Children's  World. 

The  memory  of  that  first  interview  with  Mr.  Brit- 
ton  always  caused  Eunice  a  shudder.  It  was  her  first 
face-to-face  encounter  with  business.  In  spite  of  her 
inexperience  in  such  matters,  she  realized  that  how- 
ever fine  a  gentleman  Mr.  Britton  might  be  —  and 
he  had  a  very  impressive  office  —  it  was  all  a  matter 
of  dollars  and  cents  with  him.  It  was  a  bargain  and 
she  did  not  know  how  to  be  hard.  She  felt  that  she 
should  be  on  her  guard,  but  she  had  no  shield.  She 
would  have  signed  anything  he  suggested  just  to  get 
it  over  with  —  just  to  get  out  of  the  office. 

But  her  precipitation  in  dashing  to  New  York, 
which  had  worked  out  badly  in  regard  to  Helen,  saved 
her  here.  Mr.  Britton  had  not  expected  her  to  come 
so  soon.  He  had  been  away  for  the  week-end  and  so 
had  not  had  time  to  prepare  a  contract.  He  brought 
the  interview  to  an  end  by  asking  her  to  come  the  next 
day  to  sign  up. 

Eunice  was  trembling  all  over  when  she  got  back 
to  the  hotel.  It  was  time  for  lunch,  but  she  had  no 
thought  of  that.  She  could  scarcely  find  strength  to 
take  off  her  hat  and  coat  before  tumbling  on  the  bed. 
Tired  as  her  body  was,  in  spite  of  the  bursting  pain 
in  her  head,  the  hurt  to  her  soul  was  worse.  She 
was  filled  with  a  new  and  distressing  resentment. 
She  had  never  had  to  distrust  any  one  before.  She 
knew  that  Mr.  Britton  was  trying  in  some  way  to  take 
advantage  of  her  and  —  this  was  the  worst  of  it  — 
she  would  have  to  see  him  again  on  the  morrow. 
Why  —  why  had  she  ever  come  to  this  cruel  city? 


42  THE  STRANGER 

Just  as  she  reached  the  very  bottom  of  the  slough  of 
despoud,  Helen  burst  in  on  her.  The  letter,  for- 
warded to  Albany,  had  reached  her  at  breakfast  and, 
dropping  her  work,  she  had  hurried  down  to  New 
York  on  the  first  train  to  be  of  help.  One  glance 
at  the  disconsolate  heap  on  the  bed  which  was  Eunice 
made  her  very  glad  that  she  had  come  —  Eunice  so 
obviously  needed  help.  In  West  Newleigh  the  neigh- 
bors would  have  called  Helen  "  capable,"  in  New  York 
her  friends  said  that  she  was  "  efficient."  It  did  not 
take  her  five  minutes  to  get  the  situation  in  hand. 
What  had  really  troubled  Eunice  most  had  been  the 
worry,  and  now,  with  Helen  at  her  side,  there  was  no 
more  any  reason  to  worry. 

First  of  all  Helen  straightened  her  out  on  the  bed 
and  arranged  the  pillows  where  they  would  do  the 
most  good.  Then  she  sent  for  some  chicken  broth  and 
telephoned  to  the  Maternity  Hospital  for  Mary  Dut- 
ton. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  sitting  down  in  the  old,  accus- 
tomed attitude  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  "  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

The  broth  was  a  great  source  of  comfort  and  gave 
Eunice  strength  to  tell  her/Story. 

"I'll  put  Win  on  that  job,"  Helen  said,  when 
Eunice  had  told  of  her  interview  with  Mr.  Britton. 
"  He's  had  a  lot  of  books  published  and  knows  all 
about  contracts." 

Thus  another  worry  was  lifted  from  Eunice's 
shoulders  —  she  would  not  have  to  face  Mr.  Britton 
again  alone  —  and  presently  Mary  came  in  with  a 
white-haired  old  gentleman. 


EUNICE  AND  THE  CITY  43 

"  Hello !  "  she  said  cheerily.  "  I  don't  have  to  be 
introduced,  Helen  has  told  me  so  much  about  you. 
This  is  Dr.  Riggs.  He  was  just  through  at  the  hos- 
pital and  I  brought  him  along  on  the  off  chance  that 
he  might  be  of  use." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  need  a  doctor,"  Eunice  protested. 
"  I'm  only  tired." 

"  If  you  don't  mind,"  he  said,  "  I'll  look  you  over. 
People  who  are  really  well  don't  get  tired  easily." 

She  thought  that  she  would  have  to  tell  him  about 
her  ailments  —  something  she  always  hated  to  ,do  — 
but  he  stopped  her  little  speech  by  sticking  a  ther- 
mometer in  her  mouth.  His  hands  were  very  large 
and  looked  awkward,  but  they  were  sure  and  strangely 
soothing.  Rolling  back  the  lids,  he  looked  deeply  into 
her  eyes.  Putting  down  his  ear,  he  listened  a  long 
time  to  the  sob  and  sough  of  her  tired  heart.  All  the 
while  he  did  not  ask  a  question. 

Helen  and  Mary  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  watch- 
ing the  proceedings,  and  it  seemed  to  Eunice  that  they 
had  their  arms  about  her. 

"  Stay  in  bed  this  afternoon,"  he  said,  getting  up 
abruptly,  "  go  out  and  sit  in  the  Square  in  the  morn- 
ing, if  it's  funny.  See  your  friends.  Have  a  good 
time.  Don't  mope.  But  take  things  easy,  you 
mustn't  get  tired  like  this."  He  consulted  his  en- 
gagement book.  "  Come  to  my  office  Wednesday 
morning  —  ten-thirty.  I'll  give  you  a  thorough  ex- 
amination. I'll  leave  a  prescription  at  the  drug  store 
and  have  it  sent  up  at  once.     Good-by." 

"  I've  nothing  to  do  this  afternoon  but  write  some 
letters,"  Mary  said  to  Helen,  when  the  doctor  had 


44  THE  STKANGER 

left.  "  I  might  just  as  well  do  it  here.  So,  if  you're 
busy,  run  along/' 

"  Oh,  I  hate  to  be  such  a  bother,"  Eunice  said. 

But  they  just  laughed  at  her.  Helen  said  that  she 
was  busy  and,  promising  to  be  back  at  five,  hurried 
off  to  her  office. 

Mary  bet  Eunice  that  she  could  get  her  into  her 
nightgown  and  under  the  sheets  without  raising  her 
head  three  inches. 

"  Oh,  of  course  you  could  do  it  yourself,  but  I  like 
to  show  off.  Watch  me." — "  Helen  told  us  that  you 
have  beautiful  hair,"  she  said  as  she  exhibited  her 
skill,  "  but  I  did  not  expect  it  to  be  so  marvelous." 

"  You're  not  at  all  what  I  expected,  either,"  Eunice 
said ;  "  Helen  told  me  so  much  about  your  work  — 
saving  the  babies.  I  expected  to  be  very  much  in  awe 
of  you  —  a  little  afraid.  But  I'm  not.  I  don't 
believe  anybody  could  be  afraid  of  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  could  be.  I  know  one  person  any- 
how who  is  —  the  man  I'm  threatening  to  marry. 
He's  scared  stiff." 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

But  the  argument  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival 
of  the  medicine  which  Dr.  Riggs  had  ordered. 

"  It  was  a  laugh  on  me,"  Mary  said  as  she  brought 
the  powder  and  a  glass  of  water.  "  There  wasn't  any 
reason  for  me  to  drag  Dr.  Riggs  over  here.  I  could 
have  prescribed  this  powder  myself  —  it's  just  to  put 
you  to  sleep." 

"  Oh,  there's  no  use  pretending.  I  know  what's  the 
matter  with  me.  But  I've  been  so  much  better  of 
late  that  I  didn't  think  I'd  get  tired  so  easily.     But 


EUNICE  AND  THE  CITY  45 

you  started  to  tell  me  about  the  man  you  are  go- 
ing to  marry.     I  don't  believe  he's  afraid  of  you." 
"Yes,  he  is.     He  eats  out  of  the  hand.     But  if  I 
begin  talking  about  Freddie,  you'll  never  get  to  sleep 

—  and  besides  I  want  to  write  to  him." 

Eunice  lay  there  very  comfortably,  watching  Mary 
bent  over  the  paper.  Whatever  Helen's  other  talents, 
she  was  not  good  at  describing  people.  Eunice  had 
expected  Mary  to  be  so  different,  rather  austere  — 
and  thin.  She  was  all  soft  curves  and  graciousness 
and  merry  smiles. 

The  sight  of  her,  writing  to  the  man  she  loved, 
stirred  all  sorts  of  drowsy  speculations.  How  would 
it  feel  to  be  in  love?  What  sort  of  a  man  would 
Mary  care  for?  Of  one  thing  Eunice  was  sure  —  he 
was  a  lucky  dog! 

How  the  city  had  changed  for  her  in  these  few 
hours!  All  the  morning  it  had  seemed  soulless  and 
hostile.  But  Mary  and  this  famous  doctor  were  more 
lovable  than  the  people  she  had  known  in  West  New- 
leigh.     And  Helen  was  so  wonderful. 

Gradually  every  sound  —  even  the  noisy  traffic  of 
the  street  —  became  faint.  She  heard  the  blast  of  a 
steamship's  siren  —  it  sounded  so  very  far  away  — 

—  perhaps  halfway  to  Europe.  The  scratching  of 
Mary's  pen  took  on  the  sound  of  a  loving  human 
voice,  singing  a  low  and  opiate  lullaby. 

When  Eunice  woke  up,  the  morning  sun  was  shin- 
ing in  through  the  windows.  Helen,  already  arrayed 
for  her  day's  work,  was  smiling  at  her  cheerily.  It 
took  her  several  dazed  moments  to  realize  that  she  had 
slept  all  through  the  afternoon  and  the  night  as  well. 


46  THE  STRANGER 

The  next  few  weeks  passed  for  Eunice  like  what 
the  magazine  trade  calls  "  a  sunshine  serial."  It 
seemed  altogether  too  good  to  be  true.  Everybody 
did  things  for  her,  as  though  to  make  her  forget  that 
first  unfriendly  morning.  Certainly,  Helen  never  re- 
alized how  valuable  she  was  to  Eunice  in  this  crisis. 

With  royal  generosity,  Helen  shared  her  friends. 
Win's  business  advice  was  only  the  most  obvious  move 
in  the  conspiracy  of  helpfulness.  The  contracts  he 
arranged  for  Eunice  were  very  much  better  than  she 
could  have  hoped  to  obtain  by  herself.  And  he  was 
very  insistent  that,  if  she  wanted  a  good  job  on  her 
book,  she  ought  to  stay  in  the  city  to  see  it  through 
the  press.  Helen  jumped  at  the  idea.  She  was  a  bit 
tired  of  life  in  the  Settlement.  She  was  really  too 
busy  to  give  much  time  to  the  work  there  and  there 
were  many  applicants  for  her  place.  She  found  a 
vacant  apartment  near  the  Square  which  just  fitted 
them.  Even  after  the  popularity  of  her  work  had 
grown  and  her  income  had  increased  greatly,  Eunice 
could  never  have  arranged  her  life  so  comfortably  as 
Helen  did  it  for  her.  Helen  loved  to  manage  things, 
she  loved  details  —  she  even  liked  to  keep  accounts. 
So  Eunice  did  not  have  to  waste  any  of  her  scant 
energy  on  such  harassing  details.  The  "  Flat,"  as 
they  called  the  new  establishment,  soon  won  a  place 
for  itself  beside  the  "  Studio  "  and  "  The  Diggings  " 
as  an  accepted  rendezvous  of  the  group. 

Frank  was  usually  slow  at  making  friendships,  but 
he  at  once  fell  captive  to  Eunice's  charm ;  he  helped 
her  greatly  in  her  work  and,  having  a  wide  acquaint- 
ance among  the  artist  folk  of  the  city,  he  brought 


EUNICE  AND  THE  CITY  47 

around  many  of  the  best  illustrators,  who  shared  with 
her  their  knowledge  of  the  technique  of  the  trade. 
Irene  in  her  kindergarten  could  always  find  plenty 
of  models.  And  Mary  adopted  her.  "  You're  to  be 
my  heir  and  legatee,"  she  said.  "  I  must  prepare  your 
shoulders  to  bear  my  mantle  when  I  go."  At  every 
turn,  Eunice  found  some  one  of  Helen's  friends 
smoothing  out  the  rough  places  before  her  feet. 

But  of  greater  value  than  any  of  these  comforts 
and  conveniences  was  the  medical  aid  of  Dr.  Riggs. 
His  name  was  known  the  world  around  for  his  scien- 
titic  attainments,  but  only  those  who  had  been  privi- 
leged to  come  close  to  him  personally  realized  his 
human  bigness,  the  extent  to  which  he  exceeded  and 
transcended  the  limits  of  his  professions.  Helen  had 
first  met  him  through  the  Child  Labor  Committee. 
The  prestige  of  his  great  name  had  done  more  than 
any  other  contribution,  more  than  the  most  generous 
check,  for  the  Cause  of  the  Little  Children.  And 
Helen  had  interested  him  in  the  Maternity  Hospital. 
He  loved  these  ardent  young  people,  who  shared  with 
him  the  dream  of  a  healthier  race  to  come.  Some- 
times when  he  was  utterly  tired  with  the  tremendous 
rush  of  his  work,  he  would  escape  to  the  Settlement 
for  an  evening's  rest  with  them. 

His  examination  of  Eunice  was  so  thorough,  so 
adroit,  so  understanding  that  it  inspired  her  with  a 
happy  confidence. 

k  It's  this  way,"  he  said,  when  it  was  over,  "you 
have  only  a  little  energy.  If  you  want  to  live  a  long 
time,  you  must  be  saving  with  it.  You  must  not  get 
tired  and  worried  as  you  were  the  first  day.     You 


48  THE  STRANGER 

used  up  perhaps  a  year's  energy  that  time.  Take 
things  easy.  Keep  cheerful.  There's  no  use  taking 
medicine.  A  quiet,  happy  life  is  the  best  we  can  do 
for  you.  And  remember,  that  bed  is  no  place  to  be 
except  at  night.  Get  up  every  xiay  you  possibly  can 
and  get  outdoors  —  a  walk  in  the  Square  at  least." 

This  seemed  sensible  to  Eunice  and  much  more 
pleasant  than  taking  the  endless  concoctions,  Helen's 
father,  the  village  doctor,  had  given  her. 

"  There's  only  one  medicine  I  prescribe,"  he  went 
on,  "and  the  less  you  take  of  it  the  better.  It  will 
make  you  sleep.  It's  better  than  insomnia  —  than 
tossing  about.  But  that's  all  I  can  say  for  it.  Days 
when  you  get  your  lungs  full  of  fresh  air,  you'll 
sleep  naturally  —  and  that's  better  than  any  medi- 
cine." 

Things  went  so  smoothly  and  pleasantly  for  Eunice, 
thanks  to  Helen's  watchful  care,  that  she  had  no  need 
to  take  this  medicine  for  several  months.  Then  Win 
bought  a  box  at  the  opera  to  celebrate  the  appearance 
of  a  new  novel. 

Eunice  had  never  been  to  the  theater  and  this  night 
it  was  "  Tristan  and  Isolde."  Such  beauty  of  sight 
and  sound  she  had  never  dreamed  of,  and  over  and 
above  all  the  wonders  that  happened  on  the  stage  was 
the  infectious  thrill  of  the  great  audience,  stirred  in 
unison  by  the  magic  of  the  orchestra.  "  I  had  never 
heard  any  music,"  Eunice  said  as  she  tried  to  thank 
Win,  "  but  an  ill-tuned  piano  and  phonographs." 

As  they  rode  home  in  the  cab,  Helen,  who  sat  be- 
side her,  felt  her  trembling  spasmodically. 

"  Tired?  "  she  asked. 


EUNICE  AND  THE  CITY  49 

"  Aren't  you  ?  "  Eunice  was  amazed  that  any  one, 
after  such  an  evening,  could  be  calm.  "  You're  never 
tired,"  she  added  enviously.     "  You're  wonderful !  " 

That  night  Eunice  could  not  sleep.  Again  and 
again  the  trembling  fit  seized  her.  At  last  she  got  up 
and  looked  about  for  the  sleeping  draught.  Helen 
heard  her  and  called. 

a  Oh,  it's  nothing.  I'm  looking  for  some  medicine 
to  make  me  sleep." 

Helen  had  inherited  from  her  father  an  exagger- 
ated, morbid  dread  of  "  drugs."  She  popped  out  of 
bed  and  cross-examined  Eunice  sharply.  It  was  hard 
for  her  to  believe  that  Dr.  Riggs  had  advised  "  taking 
drugs."  So  she  went  to  the  hospital  the  next  morn- 
ing to  see  him  before  his  clinic. 

"  It's  about  Eunice,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  approve 
of  her  taking  drugs  to  make  her  sleep?  " 

He  asked  a  few  questions  about  the  cause  of  her 
sleeplessness. 

"  The  drug  will  put  her  to  sleep  —  spare  her  a  little 
pain  and  discomfort.  Even  drugs  will  do  her  no  harm 
—  it  takes  too  long  a  time  for  them  to  form  a  habit." 

"  Is  it  as  bad  at  that?  " 

She  was  breathless  with  a  sudden  realization  that 
her  friend's  condition  was  so  much  more  serious  than 
she  had  let  herself  believe.     He  nodded  gravely. 

"Oh,  doctor,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?  I'm  afraid 
I've  been  unkind." 

"  You've  been  kinder  than  you  could  have  been  if 
I  had  told  you.  You've  been  treating  her  as  if  she 
were  really  alive.  That's  best  for  her.  I  suppose  she 
knows,  people  in  her  condition  always  do  —  somehow. 


50  THE  STRANGER 

But  we  must  never  remind  her.  You  have  done  more 
for  her  than  I.  Your  cheerful  manner  is  better  than 
any  medicine.  It  will  come  —  when  it  comes  — 
speedily  and  with  no  pain,  I  hope.  There  is  little  any 
one  can  do  for  her  body.  You  have  done  —  and,  now! 
that  the  habit  is  formed,  will  continue  to  do  —  a  great 
deal  for  her  peace  of  mind.  Do  not  let  her  know  our 
fears.  Treat  her  as  if  she  were  a  regular  person. 
Keep  her  gay  and  active.  Boss  her  about,  don't  let 
her  mope.  Only  don't  let  her  get  over-tired.  Above 
all  be  as  merry  as  you  can  be  yourself." 
"Isn't  there  any  hope?" 

Dr.  Riggs  twisted  his  watch  chain  for  a  moment  and 
then  looked  up  at  her  with  a  weary  but  wonderful, 
marvelous  smile. 

"  Such  things  are  sheer  mystery  to  me ;  the  only 
explanation  is  the  Christian  belief.  We  would  un- 
derstand," he  went  on  in  reply  to  Helen's  blank  look, 
"that  God  was  jealous  of  us  —  wanted  for  Himself 
the  joy  of  her  company." 

There  were  many  waiting  for  the  doctor  in  the 
clinic.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said  and  Helen 
started  to  go. 

"  It  is  not  an  easy  role  for  you,  Miss  Cash,"  he  said, 
putting  a  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "  But  it  is  not  an 
easy  role  for  me,  either,  We  doctors  have  to  get  used 
to  losing  our  patients.  Death  always  defeats  us  in  the 
end.  We  cannot  be  as  impersonal  about  our  cases  as 
we  are  supposed  to  be.  Something  in  your  friend's 
sweet  courage  has  taken  hold  of  my  imagination.  My 
own  daughter  died  —  very  long  ago.  I  think  that,  if 
she  had  lived,  she  might  have  been  like  your  friend.  \ 


EUNICE  AND  THE  CITY  51 

There  is  almost  nothing  I  can  do  for  her,  so  I  count 
on  you." 

"  But  I'm  so  ignorant  about  such " 


"  You  have  already  done  wonders.  Really,  very 
much  more  than  I.  Together  " —  the  grip  on  her 
shoulder  tightened  — "  we  will  cheat  God  of  her  com- 
pany as  long  as  we  can." 

It  was  not  an  easy  role  for  Helen.  Before  this  talk 
she  had  not  realized  that  Eunice  was  as  sick  as,  most 
unfortunately,  she  was.  Health  never  can  under- 
stand and  sympathize  with  illness,  and  Helen  had 
always  believed  that  the  less  one  thought  about  bodily 
weakness  the  better.  She  was  naturally  cheerful,  but 
she  had  gone  out  of  her  way  to  laugh  at  her  own 
physical  discomforts  for  Eunice's  benefit.  Her  in- 
stinctive brusqueness  in  such  matters  she  had  empha- 
sized in  this  case. 

Now  her  spirit  wanted  to  speak  softly  before 
Eunice,  to  walk  on  tiptoe.  But  her  mind  obeyed  the 
doctor  and  stamped  about  and  slammed  the  doors  and 
laughed  uproariously.  Intentionally  she  increased  her 
affected  callousness.  She  often  wondered  if  Eunice 
saw  through  the  pose.  And  sometimes  Eunice  won- 
dered if  this  manner  sprang  from  gross  uncompre- 
hension  or  from  marvelous  solicitude.  It  often  jarred 
on  her  and  sometimes  vexed  her  beyond  words,  but 
on  the  whole  she  was  glad  of  it.  She  did  not  want 
pity. 

Probably  nothing  which  Helen  did  for  Eunice 
helped  her  so  much  as  this  carefully  studied  appear- 
ance of  lack  of  sympathy.  In  her  aunt's  home,  sick- 
ness had  been  an  ever-present  reality  which  no  one 


52  THE  STRANGER 

could  even  momentarily  forget.  Helen  breezily 
ignored  its  existence.  In  this  new  life,  Eunice  found 
people  thinking  and  talking  of  other  things,  and 
sometimes  for  hours  on  end  she  forgot  that  she  was 
ill.  There  was  nothing  in  the  atmosphere  which 
Helen  created  to  remind  her  of  it.  Like  most  invalids 
she  was  inclined  to  be  supersensitive  and  timid,  but 
she  could  never  be  frightened,  with  Helen's  calm  and 
sturdy  assurance  to  support  her. 

Inevitably  a  large  part  of  Eunice's  life  was  second- 
hand. Almost  all  she  knew  of  the  city,  this  bewilder- 
ing new  world,  she  learned  through  Helen  or  Helen's 
friends.  It  was  a  fortunate  month  if  she  got  out  of 
doors  every  day.  The  fatigues  of  riding  up  the 
Avenue  in  a  bus  to  look  at  the  pictures  in  the  Met- 
ropolitan had  to  be  paid  for  by  an  afternoon  in  bed. 
To  go  out  at  night  to  a  theater  or  a  concert  wras  a 
great  event.  So  she  saw  the  world  very  largely 
through  Helen's  eyes  —  as  through  colored  glasses. 

To  be  sure  there  was  a  treasure  house  in  the  inmost 
citadel  of  her  spirit  where  she  stored  away  her  own 
impressions  of  life.  Pondering  things  over  in  the 
leisure  of  her  frequent  solitudes  —  when  her  friend 
was  out  in  the  midst  of  the  traffic  —  she  reached  truer 
and  more  subtle  judgments.  But  it  was  very  rarely 
that  she  exhibited  any  of  these  private  treasures  to 
others.  In  far  and  away  most  of  the  matters,  which 
came  to  her  attention,  Helen  was  very  much  better 
informed  than  she.  While  she  did  not  always  agree 
with  her  friend's  dictums,  she  seldom  disputed  them. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SUNDAY  BREAKFAST 

When  Frank  Lockwood  had  married  Lillian,  Win 
had,  of  course,  had  to  leave  the  Studio  where  they  had 
lived  together  so  long.  Luckily  Professor  Lancaster 
had  found  it  necessary  to  move  uptown  to  be  nearer 
the  university,  so  Win  had  moved  into  "  The  Dig- 
gings "  with  Pete  McGee.  It  was  to  this  apartment, 
overlooking  the  Square,  that  he  had  invited  his  friends 
for  Sunday  breakfast  to  meet  the  Stranger. 

The  large  study  was  wainscoted  with  bookshelves. 
There  were  volumes  of  law  reports,  congressional 
records,  enclycopedias  of  social  reforms,  and  so  forth 
which  represented  McGee's  habit  of  mind.  Scattered 
through  the  shelves  was  a  very  fair  assortment  of  the 
world's  best  literature  of  Win's  selection. 

The  mantelshelf  over  the  fireplace,  where  Win  was 
coaxing  the  coals  into  a  welcoming  blaze,  was  reserved 
for  "  the  firm's  output."  At  one  end  were  his  two 
volumes  of  verse,  his  "  History  of  King  Philip's  War/' 
and  his  string  of  novels.  At  the  other  end  were  a 
score  or  more  of  unbound  pamphlets,  in  each  of  which 
Pete  argued  for  or  against  some  bill  which  had  been 
before  the  New  York  State  legislature. 

WId  had  spread  on  his  writing  table  a  Russian 
bridal  apron,  heavy,  hand-woven  linen  on  the  borders 
of  which  some  long-forgotten  peasant  girl  had  em- 

53 


54  THE  STRANGER 

broidered  all  the  dreams  of  her  maidenhood.  A  cop- 
per coffee  percolator  bubbled  and  purred  over  an 
alcohol  lamp.  A  pile  of  oranges  on  a  silver  plate 
sat  between  a  dish  of  hot  buns  and  a  great  Viennese 
"nusskuchen."  There  was  also  an  inelegant,  squat 
bottle  of  cream. 

A  few  minutes  after  nine  there  was  a  thumping  at 
the  door  and  in  came  the  Lockwoods,  Helen  and 
Eunice. 

Eunice,  although  she  was  manifestly  frail,  was  in 
nowise  gaunt.  Helen  was  a  finely  built  woman, 
strikingly  healthy,  but  if  she  had  fallen  ill  and  lost 
a  little  flesh  her  bones  would  have  shown  through. 
If  Eunice  had  any  bones  at  all  they  were  very  small 
and  slender.  There  was  in  her  great  eyes  something 
of  a  child's  trustfulnss  and  unconscious  purity,  which 
kept  most  men  from  falling  in  love  with  her.  Gener- 
ally her  expression  seemed  detached  and  far  away, 
but  when  some  interest  lit  it  with  a  sudden  smile, 
she  seemed  startlingly  close.  Her  skin  was  so  soft 
and  fine  that  it  hardly  seemed  to  be  there.  It  was 
almost  as  though  there  were  no  sharply  drawn  limit 
between  herself  and  the  circumambient  air.  And  the 
mass  of  her  golden  hair,  going  brown  in  the  shadows, 
was  quite  wonderful. 

The  greetings  had  the  ring  of  long-established,  in- 
formal friendship. 

"  It's  too  bad,"  Lillian  said,  "  that  Pete  isn't  here 
to  make  us  laugh." 

"  Is  your  Stranger  coming?  "  Helen  asked. 

"  I  told  him  to  come  as  soon  as  he  heard  what 
sounded  like  a  riot  here." 


SUNDAY  BREAKFAST  55 

As  he  spoke  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Win 
went  to  open  it  and  introduced  Mr.  Lane. 

The  Stranger's  manner  was  the  opposite  from  rigid ; 
it  was  something  between  slouchiness  and  grace.  He 
was  evidently  abashed  by  the  company  and  as  evi- 
dently anxious  to  be  agreeable. 

Frank,  with  his  artist's  eye,  saw  the  easy  move- 
ments of  his  well-conditioned  muscles  beneath  his 
clothes.  The  women  all  wondered  how  old  he  was. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  boyishness  about  him, 
which  was  heightened  by  his  embarrassment.  But 
his  face,  an  intelligent,  meager  Scotch  face,  was 
mature. 

His  dress  was  inconspicuous,  except  for  a  very 
old-fashioned  collar.  Helen  noticed  the  queer  collar. 
Lillian,  seeing  that  his  trousers  were  properly  pressed, 
decided  that  he  was  a  gentleman.  Eunice  caught  the 
eager  and  constant  question  in  his  eyes. 
*  "  The  coffee  isn't  quite  ready,"  Win  said.  "  We'd 
best  stave  off  hunger  with  smoke.  Here  are  some 
marvelous  cigarettes  to  which  Mr.  Lane  introduced 
me." 

"  Where  do  you  get  them?  "  Frank  asked  as  he  lit 
one.  "  They  are  good.  You'll  have  to  lead  me  to 
them." 

"A  friend  makes  them.  An  Armenian.  It  is 
amusing.  He  is  a  dealer  in  Oriental  curios  and  also 
he  is  a  great  smoker  —  a  real  connoisseur.  He  could 
not  be  happy  without  the  best.  He  cannot  afford  to 
import  fine  Turkish  tobaccos  for  his  own  use  alone, 
so  he  makes  and  sells  enough  to  pay  for  his  luxury. 
It  does  not  make  him  rich,  but  gives  him  great  con- 


56  THE  STRANGER 

tentment.  It  is  the  same  with  coffee.  He  imports 
the  finest  Aden  coffee  —  enough  for  commerce  to  pay 
his  own  pleasure.  One  cannot  get  better  Turkish 
coffee  in  Stamboul." 

"  I've  always  wanted  to  taste  some  real  Turkish 
coffee,"  Helen  said. 

"  I  have  some  every  morning.  There  is  some  even 
now  in  my  room.  Perhaps  —  but,  no  —  Mr.  Mathews 
is  making  coffee  for  us." 

"  Let's  have  some  of  yours,"  Win  said.  "  I  invite 
competition." 

Lane  opened  the  window  overlooking  the  Square, 
and  called  some  mysterious  words  in  an  unknown 
tongue.  The  window  of  his  apartment  opened  and 
there  was  a  conversation  in  strange  gutturals.  Pres- 
ently a  young  man,  his  head  adorned  by  a  red  fez, 
appeared  with  a  brass  tray  which  held  three  tiny 
cups  of  steaming  black  coffee.  Bowing  profoundly, 
he  offered  them  to  the  ladies. 

"  I  can  make  some  more  in  two  minutes  for  the 
gentlemen,"  he  said. 

Frank  and  Win  both  said  they  would  like  to  try  it, 
if  it  were  not  too  much  trouble. 

"  No  trouble  at  all,"  Lane  said.  "  He'll  make  some 
more,"  and  he  spoke  again  in  Turkish.  The  young 
man  in  the  fez  bowed  and  hurried  out. 

"  What  good  English  your  servant  speaks,"  Lillian 
said  when  he  had  disappeared. 

"  He  is  not  my  servant.  We  share  those  rooms  to- 
gether." 

"  You  order  him  about,"  Lillian  said,  "  like  a 
servant." 


SUNDAY  BREAKFAST  57 

"  No,  he  is  not  a  servant.  He  is  employed  in  the 
Turkish  consulate.     But  he  is  younger  than  I." 

"  Well,"  Eunice  said,  "  if  he's  your  friend,  why 
doesn't  he  join  us?" 

"  Mr.  Mathews  did  not  invite  him,"  Lane  said,  with 
some  confusion. 

"I've  not  met  him,"  Win  said.  "We'll  have  him 
in,  by  all  means." 

So  when  the  young  man  returned  with  more  coffee 
he  was  introduced  as  Ali  Zaky  Bey.  In  every  way  he 
was  more  assured  than  Lane.  He  started  a  glib, 
fashionable  conversation  with  Helen  and  Lillian,  in 
which  he  made  a  parade  of  his  knowledge  of  New  York 
slang  and  continually  referred  to  his  acquaintances 
among  the  rich  and  powerful,  who  live  uptown. 

Frank  and  Win  and  Eunice  talked  to  Lane. 

As  they  were  finishing  their  breakfast  there  was  a 
new  commotion  at  the  door  and  Professor  Lancaster 
came  in  with  a  white-haired  old  gentleman  whom  he 
started  to  introduce  as  the  renowned  Russian  revolu- 
tionist, Dmitri  Inslavsky. 

The  introductions  were  still  in  progress  when 
Inslavsky,  who  seemed  half  provoked  at  being  brought 
into  so  carefree  an  assembly,  caught  sight  of  Lane. 

u  Tovarish"  he  exploded  in  Russian. 

He  grasped  Lane  by  both  shoulders,  turned  him 
toward  the  window  to  make  sure  his  eyes  had  not 
deceived  him,  and  kissed  him  resoundingly  on  both 
cheeks. 

Having  found  a  friend,  it  was  only  grudgingly 
that  the  old  man  remembered  to  be  courteous  to  the 
others. 


58  THE  STRANGER 

"  It  is,"  he  said  in  his  halting  English,  "  that  I 
knew  him  —  long  ago  —  in  Russia.  Oh,  yes !  And 
to  find  the  boy  here!  It  is  fifteen  years.  I  thought 
he  must  be  dead.  He  is  so  brave.  I  must  go  with 
him  —  somewhere;  a  talk  —  yes,  yes,  a  long  talk. 
There  are  many  things  I  must  ask  him  —  yes  —  a 
long  talk.  To  him  I  owe  more  than  my  life  —  yes  — 
much  more.  A  fine  boy !  "  There  were  tears  in  the 
old  man's  eyes  as  he  patted  Lane's  back.  "  Yes,  a 
fine  boy.  And  skillful  with  disguises  —  very  skill- 
ful.    Yes,  and  brave "     He  waved  his  hands  in 

gesture  of  the  superlative. 

Lane  was  mightily  embarrassed  at  the  demonstra- 
tion of  affection,  at  the  eulogy,  at  being  so  abruptly 
thrust  into  the  limelight.  He  fairly  shrank  with 
distress. 

"  If  it  is  proper  —  to  leave  like  this,"  he  stam- 
mered, "  I  will  take  him  to  my  room." 

"  Of  course  it's  all  right,"  Win  assured  him.  "  Old 
friends  come  first.  We're  glad  to  have  helped  you 
find  each  other." 

"  Yes,"  Lane  replied,  apparently  not  altogether 
pleased.  "  Thank  you.  But  it  was  very  pleasant  to 
meet  you  all.  I  do  not  know  many  Americans.  I 
hope  —  perhaps  —  some  other  time " 

He  glanced  around  uncertainly,  first  at  the  men, 
then  at  the  women,  especially  at  Eunice,  as  if  she  of 
all  those  unfamiliar  people  might  understand  his  em- 
barrassment, his  wish  to  be  cordial,  his  fear  of  pushing 
himself  where  he  was  not  welcomed. 

"  Sure,"  Win  said.  "  We  all  hope  to  see  more  of 
you." 


SUNDAY  BREAKFAST  *59 

"We  will,"  Eunice  said,  with  her  rare  and  proxi- 
mate smile. 

"  If  I  come  to  your  room  to-morrow  afternoon," 
Frank  said,  "  about  five,  will  you  take  me  to  see  your 
Armenian  friend?" 

"  I  will  be  glad  to." 

"  I'll  come,  too,"  Win  said. 

Inslavsky  was  as  impatient  as  a  child.  He  hardly 
gave  Lane  time  to  make  these  adieus.  Before  they 
were  out  of  the  door  he  threw  his  arm  about  the 
younger  man's  shoulders  and  broke  into  a  flood  of 
sonorous  Russian,  which  Lane  seemed  to  understand 
quite  as  easily  as  Turkish  and  English. 

As  soon  as  they  had  left,  Ali  Zaky  Bey  got  up  im- 
perturbably  and  announced  that,  to  his  profound  re- 
gret, the  Ottoman  Government  did  not  recognize  the 
Christian  Sabbath  and  that  he  must  hurry  away  to 
his  desk  at  the  consulate. 

Speculation  broke  loose  the  moment  he  had  dis- 
appeared. 

"Who  is  this  man  Lane?  "  Lancaster  asked. 

"  That's  just  the  question,"  Win  answered.  "  Who 
is  he?" 

"  He  seems  like  a  gentleman,"  Lillian  said. 

Lancaster,  not  liking  the  word  "  gentleman,"  op- 
posed this  verdict. 

"  Inslavsky  would  not  have  called  him  '  Tovarish/ 
that  means  '  comrade,'  if  he  had  not  been  a  true 
revolutionist  —  well,  we'll  find  out  about  him  in  time. 
Anyhow  my  morning  plans  are  spoiled.  I  wanted 
you  to  have  a  talk  with  the  old  man,  Win.  His  story 
is  wonderful.     I  want  you  to  write  a  magazine  article 


60  THE  STRANGER 

about  him.  It  would  help  a  great  deal.  Sorry  I 
can't  fritter  away  my  time  with  you  idlers,  but  I'm 
rushed  to  death.     I  must  run  along." 

He  hurried  away  to  his  multitudinous  busynesses. 

"Well,"  Win  asked,  "will  he  do?" 

"  He  has  my  vote,"  Helen  said.  "  He  looks  inter- 
esting." 

"  When  he  takes  you  to  that  cigarette  store,  Frank," 
Lillian  said,  "  you  can  ask  him  to  dinner ;  let's  see  — 
Tuesday  or  Thursday.  It  don't  matter.  And  I'll 
invite  him  for  Thanksgiving.  And,  say,  how  about 
his  friend  —  this  Ali  Something  Bey?  '  Bey  '  means 
1  prince,'  don't  it?  We  ought  to  call  him  i  Your  High- 
ness.' He'd  make  five  men,  if  he'd  come,  and  we 
could  ask  that  new  nurse,  Miss  Claridge.  Irene's 
anxious  to  have  us  take  her  in." 

"  We  might  have  her,  anyhow,"  Eunice  said.  "  We 
don't  need  to  have  couples.  But  I  vote  against  this 
prince  —  if  that's  what  '  Bey '  means.  Mr.  Lane 
doesn't  like  him.  I  felt  that  I'd  made  a  break,  the 
minute  I  suggested  that  he  should  join  us." 

"Why,  Mr.  Lane  said  they  were  friends,"  Lillian 
insisted. 

"  No.  He  said  they  were  living  together.  He 
doesn't  like  him." 

"  I  didn't  notice  that,"  Helen  said.  "  But  the  Bey 
didn't  make  a  hit  with  me.     He's  too  slick." 

Lillian  did  not  want  to  lose  her  prince.  But  no 
amount  of  argument  could  shake  Eunice's  conviction 
that  Lane  did  not  like  his  roommate. 

"When  a  woman  cannot  produce  reasons  for  an 


SUNDAY  BREAKFAST  61 

opinion,"  Win  said,  quoting  from  his  last  novel,  "  she's 
quite  likely  right." 

"  That's  the  cheapest  thing  you  ever  wrote,"  Helen 
snorted  indignantly. 

"  Yes,"  Frank  agreed.  "  It's  such  an  unmarried 
epigram.     It  sounds  so  bachelorish." 

But  Lillian  was  too  intent  on  her  Thangsgiving 
project  to  allow  herself  to  be  distracted  by  such  by- 
play. In  her  mind  there  should  always  be  a  man 
for  every  woman.  She  would  not  hear  of  an  odd 
number.  So  it  was  decided  that  the  party  should 
consist  of  the  Lockwoods,  Helen  and  Eunice,  Lancas- 
ter and  Irene,  Win  and  this  Mr.  Lane. 

When  this  was  decided  the  guests  departed.  And 
Win,  after  clearing  away  his  breakfast  wreckage, 
spread  out  his  papers  and  settled  down  to  work. 

Lillian  always  spent  Sundays  with  her  parents. 
Helen  hurried  off  uptown  with  her,  and  Eunice 
walked  across  the  Square  with  Frank  to  the  Studio. 


CHAPTER  V 

LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS 

Of  all  the  friends  in  the  city  to  whom  Helen  had 
introduced  her,  Eunice  felt  closest  to  Frank.  It 
sometimes  seemed  to  her  as  though  her  illness  were  a 
magic  cloak  of  invisibility,  which  allowed  her  to 
wander  unnoticed  into  the  lives  of  her  friends,  to 
penetrate  more  deeply  into  their  intimacies  than  was 
permitted  to  those  who  were  well.  The  fact  was  true 
enough  —  people  did  not  pull  down  the  blinds  at  her 
approach,  arrange  the  drapery  of  their  veils,  nor 
stiffen  into  a  pose.  But  the  explanation  she  gave 
herself  for  this  fact  was  all  wrong.  Sickness  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it. 

Her  curiosity  about  life  was  so  eager  and  naive, 
her  interest  in  people  so  friendly,  her  sympathetic 
understanding  so  sure  —  so  uncensorious  —  that  no 
one  felt  it  offensive.  It  was  charming.  People  found 
it  easy  —  and  safe  —  to  be  relaxed  and  off  their  guard 
with  her.  These  new  friends,  as  Helen  had  always 
been,  were  unashamed  and  unreserved  before  her. 

There  was  something  elusive  about  Frank.  Sooner 
or  later  his  friends  found  a  door  that  was  closed. 
He  was  cordial  and  approachable;  no  one  could  say 
that  he  kept  them  at  arm's-length.  But  he  kept 
every  one  back  a  finger's  breadth  from  the  threshold 
of  his  Inner  Shrine.     In  the  first  years  of  his  mar- 

62 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  63 

riage  he  had  tried  to  tempt  Lillian  across  it.  But 
she  was  not  interested.  She  did  not  understand  his 
goddess.  His  efforts  to  initiate  her  into  the  cult 
had  bored  her.  This  rebuff  had  only  made  him  the 
more  sensitive  about  it,  the  more  careful  to  keep  the 
door  of  the  Sanctuary  closed.  But  he  had  opened  it 
—  at  first  very  shyly  —  to  Eunice. 

To  be  sure,  she  had  become  more  quickly  and  easily 
acquainted  with  Win.  Often,  when  he  saw  her  from 
his  window  taking  her  morning  walk  in  the  Square, 
he  would  come  out  and  join  her.  He  had  told  her  all 
about  his  own  life  —  his  struggle  to  break  away  from 
his  Bostonian  heritage.  "  The  trouble  with  me,"  he 
said,  "  is  that  I'm  too  damned  refined  —  cursed  with 
culture."  He  told  her  of  the  years  of  his  youth  he 
had  wasted,  trying  to  revive  the  brave  old  traditions 
of  New  England  letters  —  his  transcendental  sonnets, 
his  volume  of  essays  on  "  Taste,"  his  "  History  of  King 
Philip's  War."  "  The  only  thing  I  can  say  for  my- 
self is  that  I  wasn't  flippant.  God  knows  I  took 
myself  seriously.  I  wanted  to  write,  but  I  wasted 
my  time  on  the  kind  of  things  people  expected  me 
to  do.  I  didn't  write  those  sonnets  because  there 
was  an  emotion  in  me  yearning  for  expression  —  but 
because  they  had  written  verses  at  Brook  Farm.  My 
essays !  I  didn't  have  anything  to  say,  but  they  told 
me  that  the  essay  was  a  noble  form  of  literature, 
shamefully  neglected  by  this  commercial  age.  I  spent 
three  years  on  that  history  —  not  because  any  one 
was  interested  in  a  third-rate  scrimmage  with  the 
Indians — I  wasn't  interested  myself  —  but  history 
came  after  verses  and  essays." 


64  THE  STRANGER 

"  I  don't  believe  you  were  such  a  fool,"  Eunice 
said. 

"Yes,  I  was.  But  I  never  had  a  chance.  My 
parents  caught  me  too  young.  Prescott,  of  the  Fine 
Phrases,  Emerson,  Apostle  of  the  Obvious  —  those 
were  the  only  ideals  they  gave  men.  That's  Boston ! 
Culture !  —  not  as  a  weapon  in  a  crusade,  not  as  a 
means  to  a  larger,  fuller,  more  vital  life  —  no,  —  but 
culture  as  an  end  in  itself.  And  a  snobbish  end  at 
that!  It  was  Frank  who  jerked  me  out  of  the  rut  — 
rescued  me  from  this  deadening  Bostonism.  What 
the  Vandals  did  to  the  Roman  Empire  wasn't  a  patch 
on  what  Frank  Aid  to  me! 

"  Once,  when  we  were  just  getting  acquainted,  he 
explained  to  me  why  he  didn't  do  the  regular  stunt  of 
copying  the  Old  Masters  in  the  museum.  '  Why 
should  I?  '  he  said ; '  I'll  never  have  to  paint  a  Spanish 
guy  in  silk  tights,  nor  an  altar  piece  for  an  Italian 
church.  Why  waste  time  trying  to  imitate  them? 
If  I've  any  talent  at  all,  I'd  better  develop  it  on 
subjects  that  interest  me.' 

"  You  know,"  Win  went  on,  "  that  was  a  brand-new 
idea  to  me  —  it  gave  me  quite  a  thrill  to  speculate 
about  what  I  might  become,  if  I  gave  up  the  idea  try- 
ing to  be  like  Lowell.  Of  course  at  first  I  thought 
Frank  was  a  fool.  I  thought  that  it  was  a  pity  he 
did  not  have  a  background  of  solid  culture.  Me  — 
with  my  little  talent  for  plodding  —  pitying  him! 
It  wasn't  till  his  '  Study  in  Moonlight  Grays '  won 
the  Pittsburgh  Prize  and  was  bought  for  the  Corco- 
ran, that  I  began  to  take  him  seriously.  He  fasci- 
nated me.     He  was  the  first  real  live  person  I  had 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  65 

ever  met.  When  he  moved  to  New  York,  I  came 
along." 

He  told  her  about  their  first  years  in  the  city,  how 
they  had  found  the  Studio,  and  made  friends  with 
the  Settlement  crowd.  He  told  her  about  his  own 
work,  the  novels  he  had  written,  and  the  better 
ones  to  come.  But  most  of  all  he  talked  about  his 
friend. 

At  the  time  Eunice  reached  New  York,  Frank  was 
not  doing  much.  Six  months  before,  he  had  finished 
his  "  Opus  XLVIII."  <It  had  been  a  tremendous 
effort,  leaving  him  utterly  fatigued. 

"  It's  terrifying,"  Win  said,  "  this  living  with  a 
genius.  Such  ups  and  downs  —  dizzying  high  ups 
and  such  abysmal  downs!  When  that  picture  was 
finished,  he  went  to  pieces,  lost  interest  in  everything 
—  got  drunk !  The  critics  were  wild  about  it.  Bald- 
win bought  it  for  his  private  collection.  But  Frank 
would  put  his  fingers  in  his  ears,  if  he  heard  it  men- 
tioned.    Utter  exhaustion! 

"  I  suppose  real  creation  is  always  exhausting. 
A  mother,  they  say,  must  rest  a  while  from  her  travail 
before  she  can  find  energy  to  love  the  child.  Per- 
haps that's  why  the  great  God  has  let  this  world  of 
His  run  so  amazingly  awry.  After  the  six  days  of  His 
labor,  He  was  probably  too  tired  to  care.  When  His 
long  Sabbath  has  rested  Him,  He  may  begin  to  take 
an  interest  in  what  His  creatures  are  doing.  Any- 
how, that's  the  way  it  was  with  Frank.  It  was 
months  before  he  could  paint  again.  Irene  got  him 
started  at  last  on  that  Mother  Goose  frieze  for  her 
Kindergarten." 


66  THE  STRANGER 

Such  stories  about  Frank  served  to  whet  Eunice's 
desire  to  know  him  better,  and  at  last  the  chance  came 
when  he  asked  her  to  pose  for  a  poster  he  had  promised 
the  Drama  League. 

It  was  not  so  easy  to  get  acquainted  with  him 
as  it  had  been  with  Win.  He  was  not  a  ready  talker. 
Generally  he  had  some  brushes  in  his  mouth  and, 
when  he  did  not,  he  conversed  visibly,  but  inaudibly, 
with  himself.  To  be  sure  he  looked  at  her  a  great 
deal,  but  with  no  appearance  of  recognition.  u  He 
would  look  in  just  the  same  way  at  a  bunch  of  car- 
rots/' she  told  Helen,  il  if  he  were  painting  a  still- 
life." 

But  in  spite  of  his  conversational  failings,  Eunice 
did  get  acquainted  with  him.  He  was  not  always 
silent.  Sometimes,  during  the  rest  period,  he  talked 
a  little  —  never  about  himself,  but  always  about 
something  close  to  him.  His  favorite  brand  of  colors ; 
the  best  place  to  buy  canvases;  disconnected  scraps 
about  the  technique  of  his  art.  Some  of  it  was 
directly  useful  to  her  in  her  own  work,  and  once 
a  question  of  hers  about  perspective  —  a  matter 
which  always  troubled  her  —  set  him  off  on  a  very 
helpful  discourse. 

Running  through  all  his  stray  remarks,  perhaps 
even  more  through  his  silences,  was  evidence  of  a  very 
real  devotion.  No  detail  that  affected  the  service  of 
his  goddess  was  beneath  his  serious  attention. 

"  The  artist,"  he  said,  "  is  nothing  but  a  tool.  He 
must  grind  his  edges  sharp.  That's  what  people  who 
don't  know  call  i  drudgery.'  No  real  artist  ever 
called  it  that." "A  picture  is  not  something 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  67 

an  artist  does.     The  goddess  does  it  by  means  of 

him.'' "  The  goddess  comes  only  now  and  then. 

You  can't  tell  when  she'll  come.  So  you  must  work 
hard  —  keep  your  edges  sharp  all  the  time.  It  would 
be  awful  to  be  dull  if  she  came  and  wanted  to  use 

you. That's  why  I  work  hard  on  this  poster, 

which   doesn't  matter  —  to  keep  my  edges  sharp." 

"  It's  a  long  time  since  the  goddess  has  come 

to  me.     I  don't  want  to  get  rusty." 

But  in  all  he  said  and  did,  his  faith  that  the  goddess 
would  come  again  was  implicit. 

When  the  poster  was  finished,  he  tried  to  thank  her 
for  posing,  but  she  cut  him  short.  "  It's  been  a  favor 
to  me.  You  see,  I've  never  been  to  a  school.  I've 
never  seen  any  one  paint  before.  I've  learned  a  great 
deal  —  just  watching  you." 

"  If  that's  the  way  you  feel,"  he  said,  "  come  in 
any  time.  I  don't  like  people  about  when  I  work, 
generally.  But  you've  sense  enough  not  to  interrupt. 
Come  in  any  time." 

She  took  advantage  of  his  offer  and  a  habit  was 
formed,  which  she  valued  highly.  Two  or  three  times 
a  week,  she  would  drop  into  his  Studio  for  an  hour  or 
more.  A  very  real  friendship  developed,  and  so  it 
happened  that  Eunice  was  the  first  of  the  group  to 
hear  of  Lillian  von  Lehrenburg. 

She  had  come  into  the  Studio  one  morning  and 
found  Frank,  disheveled,  in  evening  clothes,  working 
furiously  at  some  sketches.  But  for  once  he  wanted 
to  stop  and  talk. 

"  I've  found  her!  "  he  said  with  intense  excitement. 
"  My  next  picture !     Magnificent !     Gorgeous !     Not 


68  THE  STRANGER 

even  Leonardo  ever  had  such  a  model !  The  goddess 
found  her  for  me  —  she's  come  again.  And  —  thank 
all  the  gods  —  I'm  ready." 

Eunice  had  never  seen  Frank  so  exalted.  This  was 
what  Win  had  meant  by  his  being  "  way  up  "  and  she 
wondered  if  it  would  be  followed  by  an  "  abysmal 
down." 

"  She's  not  lovely,"  he  said,  walking  about  ner- 
vously, "  nothing  soft  like  that  —  beauty  —  sheer 
beauty !  Teutonic.  The  marvelous  Nordic  blonde. 
I've  always  dreamed  of  it.  One  model  has  exquisite 
hands.  There's  a  girl  up  at  The  Art  Students' 
League  with  an  almost  perfect  torso  —  but  her  skin 
coloring  is  bad.  And  the  last  model  I  had  — >  her  face 
was  a  joy  to  paint.  So  it  goes  —  an  ideal  made  out 
of  patchwork.  And  now  —  suddenly  —  I  find  it  — 
all  embodied  —  full,  queenly  beauty  —  sovereign ! 
And  such  marvelous  symmetry.  I  never  saw  any- 
thing like  the  way  her  arms  hang  onto  her  shoulders 

—  the  sweep  of  them ! 

"  Where  did  I  find  her?  At  a  dinner  party.  I 
hate  such  stiff  formality  —  I  don't  go  to  a  dinner  once 
a  year.  But  last  night  —  the  goddess  sent  me  — 
guided  my  footsteps.     And  there  she  was. 

"  Her  parents  were  there,  too,  so  I  could  get  it  all 
arranged.     The  mother's  a  fool  —  typical '  lady  thug  ' 

—  spattered  with  paste  jewels  —  at  least  I  think  they 
were  paste.  She  wanted  a  society  portrait  effect  — 
hand  on  a  Russian  wolfhound  and  all  that.  But  the 
old  man  has  some  sense.  I'm  to  do  just  as  I  please. 
They're  to  come  this  afternoon.  I  dashed  down  here 
to  get  started.     What  do  you  think  of  these  sketches? 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  09 

u  See.  And  here's  a  bolt  of  old  brocade  —  cloth 
of  gold.  I  saw  it  once  in  a  shop  window  and  bought 
it.  Win  was  furious.  I  was  awful  hard  up  those 
days  and  he  called  it  extravagance.  But  I  knew  it 
would  come  in  handy.  The  goddess  told  me  to  buy  it. 
It  will  make  a  wonderful  robe  for  her.  Square  cut  in 
the  neck.  A  great  braid  over  this  shoulder  —  it  em- 
phasizes the  curve  of  her  arm.  In  one  hand  a  crystal 
globe  —  a  high  light  —  gold  in  her  gown  —  gold  chair 
—  and  the  gold  of  her  hair.  In  the  other  hand  an 
upright,  naked  sword  —  a  straight  and  cruel  sword. 
And  a  crown  —  just  a  band  of  graven  gold.  See, 
here's  a  design  I've  made  for  a  chain  to  hang  about 
her  neck  —  flat,  square  links.  I  know,  a  theatrical 
property  man  who  will  make  just  what  I  want.  A 
necklace  for  the  bride  of  Charlemagne. 

"  Oh !  Do  you  see  it?  Her  head  bent  just  a  trifle 
forward  —  gazing  down  into  the  crystal.  It's  the, 
Picture ! " 

Eunice,  never  having  encountered  such  excitement 
before,  hardly  knew  what  to  say,  but  a  practical  sug- 
gestion, worthy  of  Helen,  occurred  to  her. 

"  You  haven't  been  in  bed  all  night.  You'll  have 
to  change  your  clothes.     You'd  best  get  a  little  sleep." 

"  Sleep !  "  he  said  scornfully,  as  though  it  were  an 
utter  impossibility.  "  But  I  guess  I  had  best  wash  up 
a  bit  and  get  something  to  eat.  Come  to  think  about 
it,  I'm  Tarnished.  Oh!  my  friend,"  he  said,  twirling 
around  on  his  heel  in  glee,  "  it's  good  to  be  at  work 
again !  —  Don't  tell  anybody  about  it,"  he  added  as 
she  turned  to  go.  "  I  can't  talk  about  it  till  I  get  well 
started.     I  haven't  even  told  Win.     I  guess  he  thinks 


70  THE  STRANGER 

I  came  home  drunk.     I  wouldn't  talk  to  him  at  all 
this  morning. 

Eunice  asked  if  she  could  come  in  to  watch  him  as 
usual. 

"  Wait  a  couple  of  weeks,"  he  said,  "  till  I  get  well 
into  it." 

Ten  days  or  so  later,  Win  came  out  of  the  Studio 
one  morning  and  joined  Eunice  in  the  Square. 

"  Frank's  at  work  again/'  he  said.  "  It's  just  as 
it  was  when  he  was  painting  his  Opus  XLVIII.  I 
have  to  feed  him  by  hand  —  literally.  If  I  did  not 
stand  right  over  him,  he'd  forget  to  eat  what  I  bring. 
It's  awful  —  awe-inspiring." 

"  He  told  me  he  had  found  a  model.  But  " —  she 
was  surprised  at  Win's  disconsolate  tone  — "  aren't 
you  glad  he's  at  work  again?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course;  but  I'm  frightened.  I'm  only 
too  glad  to  stand  by  and  pour  the  coffee  into  him, 
bring  him  his  lunch  and  all  that.  But  I've  been 
through  it  with  him  before.  I  haven't  any  fear  for 
his  work  —  it  will  be  something  marvelous  —  I'm  sure 
of  that.  But  I'm  afraid  for  him.  He's  putting  so 
much  of  himself  into  the  job  —  there'll  be  precious 
little  of  him  left." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  girl?  " 

"  Just  a  glimpse.  She  doesn't  matter  —  she's  only 
what  he  calls  a  tool.  But  I  really  am  worried  about 
him.  Nobody  could  stand  such  intensity,  day  after 
day,  without  any  let-up.  I  wish  you'd  take  a  hand. 
I  haven't  any  tact  —  it  always  rubs  him  the  wrong 
way,  if  I  butt  in.  But  he  likes  you.  Why  have  you 
stopped  coming  to  the  Studio?    God  knows  I  don't 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  71 

want  to  interfere  with  his  work,  but  I'm  sure  he 
could  work  better  if  now  and  then  he  thought  of  some- 
thing else.  Can't  you  come  to  lunch  to-day?  Fake 
up  some  problem  about  your  work  —  anything.  It 
can't  do  any  harm  —  at  worst  he'll  be  rude.  It  might 
do  some  good." 

Eunice  considered  this  proposal  a  few  minutes. 
Frank  had  said  that  she  could  come  after  he  got  well 
started.  It  would  interest  her  immensely  to  see  him 
;  t  work  on  a  great  effort.  Perhaps  Win  was  right  — 
it  might  do  some  good.  And  besides  she  had  her 
woman's  curiosity.  She  very  much  wanted  to  see  this 
person  who  had  stirred  Frank  so  profoundly. 

So  at  noon  she  appeared  at  the  Studio  with  one  of 
her  "  Tit,  Tat,  Toe,  and  Little  Tot "  drawings  under 
her  arm.  Once  more  it  was  "  perspective "  which 
bothered  her.  Frank  saw  the  trouble  at  a  glance  and 
righted  it.  While  they  were  discussing  this,  lunch 
was  announced.  Frank  was  not  at  all  rude,  the  meal 
went  off  very  pleasantly. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  how  it's  coming  on?  "  Frank 
asked,  when  the  coffee  was  finished.  Win,  joyfully, 
escaped  upstairs  to  his  writing  room.  His  little  con- 
spiracy was  working  well. 

"  Somehow,"  Frank  said  as  he  led  her  into  the 
Studio,  "I  can  talk  to  you.  It  helps.  I  get  tired 
of  talking  to  myself." 

He  had  already  made  considerable  progress.  It 
was  only  scaffolding,  but  Eunice  was  enough  of  an 
artist  herself  to  catch  an  intimation  of  what  it  was 
to  be.  He  was  keeping  close  to  the  design  he  had 
first  shown   her.     There  was  no  stumbling.     "  The 


72  THE  STRANGER 

Picture "  had  come  to  him,  whole,  complete.  He 
knew  just  what  he  wanted  to  do.  He  argued  it  all 
out  with  her.  It  was  more  of  a  lecture  than  a  con- 
versation.    He  was  not  asking  any  one's  advice. 

A  few  minutes  before  two,  Mother  von  Lehrenburg 
and  her  daughter  arrived.  Eunice  looked  right  past 
the  mother.  There  was  nothing  about  her  to  hold  any 
one's  attention.  The  daughter,  as  Frank  had  said, 
was  quite  wonderful.  Larger  than  the  average,  she 
was  nevertheless  lithe  and  graceful.  Her  hair  was 
almost  as  heavy  as  Eunice's,  a  shade  or  two  lighter 
in  color.  The  features  of  her  face  as  well  as  her 
form  were  as  nearly  perfect  as  Eunice  had  ever  seen. 
But  there  was  one  slight  reservation  in  her  admira- 
tion. There  was  something  lacking  in  her  eyes.  It 
was  not  that  they  were  ugly  —  just  somewhat  less 
beautiful  than  the  rest.  They  made  Eunice  think 
instinctively  of  the  blank  eyes  of  a  statue.  "  That's 
why  he  paints  her  looking  down  at  the  crystal,"  she 
said  to  herself,  with  sudden  appreciation  of  his  in- 
sight. "  They  won't  show  in  his  picture.  It  will  be 
all  beautiful." 

The  introductions  were  awkward,  for  Frank  was  not 
adroit  in  such  matters.  Lillian  went  to  the  dressing 
room  to  change  into  costume  and  Frank  began  laying 
out  his  brushes,  so  Eunice  had  to  talk  to  the  mother. 
Mrs.  von  Lehrenburg  stared  at  her  hostilely  through 
her  lorgnette.  Her  voice  was  harsh  and  nagging. 
Used  to  people  who  did  not  consider  her  very  highly, 
she  had  become  unpleasantly  self-assertive.  Eunice 
saw  that  Frank's  estimate  had  been  right,  the  jewels 
were  paste.     "  She  must  have  been  beautiful,  too, 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  73 

once  —  sic  transit  tyrannis"  Eunice  was  fond  of 
quotations,  but  a  trifle  weak  in  Latin. 

When  Lillian  appeared  in  her  crown  and  cloth  of 
gold,  Eunice's  heart  almost  stopped  beating.  "  Why 
wasn't  she  born  centuries  ago,  when  she  might  have 
been  the  queen  of  some  great  conqueror?  "  Seated  in 
the  high-backed  Gothic  chair,  which  Frank  had 
gilded,  the  effect  was  regal  indeed. 

Frank  stood  and  gazed  at  her  a  moment  after  she 
had  taken  her  pose,  then  he  beckoned  to  Eunice. 

"  Look,"  he  said.  "  Look  at  the  shadows  on  her 
throat  —  and  the  texture  of  the  skin  on  her  cheek." 

A  deep,  angry  blush  broke  over  Lillian's  face;  it 
spread  down  to  her  throat.     She  hung  her  head. 

"  Oh !  "  Frank  groaned  in  vexation,  "  you  moved. 
The  pose  was  perfect.  Can  you  get  it  again?  Please. 
The  chin  a  little  higher." 

Eunice,  although  she  blushed  in  sympathy  with 
Lillian,  was  amused.  Frank  was  utterly  unconscious 
that  the  very  objectivity  of  his  admiration  was  almost 
insulting.  "  She  might  just  as  well  be  a  bunch  of 
carrots,"  she  thought,  remembering  her  own  expe- 
rience. 

Eunice  felt  herself  de  trop;  her  presence  rendered 
Lillian  uncomfortable  and  self-conscious.  So  at  the 
first  rest  period,  she  slipped  away.  "  I'll  not  em- 
borram  them  again,"  she  said  to  herself. 

Back  in  her  own  room,  Eunice  thought  over  the 
experience  in  great  detail,  as  was  her  wont.  She 
was  most  impressed  by  the  obvious  difference  in  the 
way  tluit  Prank  and  she  looked  at  this  beautiful  per- 
son.    He  saw  beauty ;  she  saw  a  person.     She  doubted 


74  THE  STRANGER 

if  Frank  had  the  least  curiosity  about  Lillian's  life 
and  thoughts  and  ideals.  To  him  she  was  a  model, 
an  amazing,  thrilling  thing  to  paint.  But  Eunice 
was  immensely  curious.  She  wondered  how  it  would 
feel  to  know  oneself  so  beautiful  —  for  Lillian  surely 
knew.  She  wondered  from  what  soil,  from  what  seed 
this  marvelous  thing  had  sprung. 

Eunice,  after  this  first  encounter  with  Lillian,  did 
not  go  again  to  the  Studio.  Once  or  twice,  carrying 
out  Win's  suggestion,  she  asked  Frank  to  come  to 
lunch  at  the  Flat  to  help  her  with  her  work.  So 
she  was  kept  somewhat  in  touch  with  his  progress, 
and  was  not  surprised  when  he  called  up  on  the  tele- 
phone and  said  it  was  finished. 

"  I'm  inviting  all  the  crowd,"  he  said,  "  for  a  private 
view  —  to-morrow  afternoon  —  for  tea  — four- thirty." 

Helen  was  a  little  delayed  at  her  office  that  day, 
so  the  rest  of  the  friends  were  already  at  the  Studio 
when  the  two  girls  arrived. 

Eunice,  although  she  had  followed  its  earlier  stages, 
was  completely  surprised  and  overwhelmed  by  the 
Picture.  It  so  much  exceeded  her  expectations  that 
she  was  reduced  to  an  awed  speechlessness.  She  sat 
down  on  a  divan  a  little  apart  from  the  groups  about 
the  tea  table.  She  heard  only  vague  scraps  of  the 
conversation.  De  Pargt,  the  curator  of  the  museum, 
and  Baldwin,  who  had  bought  the  Opus  XLVIII,  had 
been  there  earlier  in  the  afternoon  and  Baldwin  had 
bought  it  for  the  Metropolitan.  This  much  Eunice 
heard  of  the  talk,  but  she  was  too  intent  on  the  Picture 
to  listen.  She  had  a  vivid  feeling  that  now  at  last 
she  was  really  acquainted  with  Frank. 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  75 

Presently  Helen  came  over  and  sat  beside  her. 
"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  Eunice  waved  her 
hands  vaguely.  Pantomime  was  a  trick  she  had 
learned  from  the  children.  She  could  express  very 
much  more  by  gestures  than  most  civilized  adults. 

"  Of  course,  it's  wonderfully  good/'  Helen  said, 
"  but  do  you  think  he  meant  to  give  it  that  hard  — 
almost  merciless  —  tone?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  that  is  just  what  he  meant.  He  told 
me  before  he  began  that  it  would  be  beautiful  —  not 
lovely.     There's  a  big  difference." 

Helen  started  to  say  something  more,  but  there  was 
a  tumultuous  ring  at  the  door.  Frank  went  to  answer 
it.     A  loud,  rather  coarse,  voice  greeted  him. 

"  I  ran  across  De  Pargt  just  now  and  he  said  you 
had  something  wonderful  down  here.     Can  I  see  it?  " 

"  Bruce  Lyons,"  Helen  said  disgustedly. 

All  of  them  knew  Lyons,  none  of  them  liked  him. 
He  was  a  man  shading  toward  fifty.  He  wrote  pop- 
ular novel  serials  in  a  magazine  of  a  million  odd 
subscribers.  He  put  what  he  called  "  twang  "  into 
his  stories,  not  the  frank,  joyous  obscenity  of  Rabelais, 
but  an  indecently  veiled  saratfBffsfcefes.  He  had  the 
gift  of  words,  of  full-sounding,  sonorous  words.  His 
advertising  methods  were  blatant  and  successful.  He 
lived  uptown  expensively,  with  an  expensive  wife. 

But  this  prosperous  dealer  in  cheap  vulgarities  had 
once  been  young.  Years  ago,  he  had  lived  in  a  garret 
in  Paris,  trying  to  write  the  Great  American  Play. 
But  of  those  years  he  never  spoke  and  so  Frank  and 
Win  could  not  understand  why  he  sometimes  came  to 
the  Studio  and  always  outstayed  his  welcome.     But 


76  THE  STRANGER 

the  explanation  was  simple;  he  immensely  admired 
these  two  young  men  who  had  kept  the  faith,  At 
times,  when  the  din  of  his  facile  typewriter  became 
unbearable,  he  would  jump  into  his  gaudy  limousine 
and  come  down  to  the  Studio  to  listen  to  their  talk 
of  the  goddess,  whose  cult  he  had  served  in  his  youth 
—  to  worship,  vicariously  and  from  afar,  at  the  shrine 
he  had  deserted. 

The  Picture  stood  on  an  easel  directly  opposite  the 
door,  so  the  unwelcomed  guest  saw  it  before  catching 
sight  of  the  tea  party. 

"  Lord  God  Almighty !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  isn't 
fair.  You  ought  to  warn  a  man.  I've  come  in  with 
my  hat  on." 

Snatching  off  his  hat,  he  stood  there  a  moment  un- 
covered before  the  Picture. 

"  That's  her !  "  he  said  reverently.  "  The  goddess ! 
She's  been  here,  Frank,  and  has  smiled  on  you.  Good 
Lord !     How  I  envy  you !  " 

Then,  turning  from  it  reluctantly,  he  shook  hands 
with  the  guests.  He  was  noticeably  subdued.  As 
soon  as  he  decently  could,  he  returned  to  the  Pic- 
ture. 

Suddenly  he  began  blinking  his  eyes,  but  the  tears, 
the  foolish  tears,  could  not  be  hid. 

"  You  people  despise  me  —  and  ought  to !  I  didn't 
like  to  be  hungry.  The  mess  of  pottage  smelt  good. 
I  never  saw  the  goddess  —  face  to  face  —  as  you  have, 
Frank.  I  didn't  deserve  to.  But  now  and  then  —  I 
caught  some  of  the  effulgence  of  her  nearness  —  but 
—  well  —  I  wasn't  man  enough !  I  haven't  any  right 
even  to  look  at  your  picture  of  her!  " 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  77 

Without  a  word  of  farewell,  he  grabbed  his  hat 
and  rushed  out. 

"  Well,"  Helen  said,  "  he's  the  last  man  I  ever  ex- 
pected to  see  get  hysterical." 

But  to  Eunice,  sitting  silent  on  the  divan,  this 
strange  outburst  seemed  a  poignant  soul  tragedy. 
Another  thwarted  life!  It  was  only  a  variation  of 
her  own  tragedy.  In  the  old  days  in  West  Newleigh, 
she  had  longed  for  life  in  the  vaguest  terms.  She 
had  hungered  for  —  she  knew  not  what.  She  had  had 
no  clear  picture  of  what  life  might  mean  to  her  if 
she  were  well.  But  since  she  had  come  to  New  York, 
since  her  talks  with  Win  about  literature,  since  her 
slow-growing  friendship  for  Frank  had  ripened,  life 
had  come  to  mean  for  her  something  quite  precise. 
The  thing  she  hungered  for  was  also  the  goal  of  their 
aspirations,  The  Holy  Grail  of  their  questing.  If 
she  had  only  been  strong  enough  to  stand  the  long 
hours  before  the  easel,  she,  too,  might  have  done  brave 
things!  "The  Unknown  Goddess."  That  was  what 
she  would  always  call  this  picture  of  Frank's.  He 
had  shown  it  to  her  —  what  life  might  be.  She,  too, 
would  have  worshiped  at  his  shrine,  if  her  weak 
body  had  not  betrayed  her.  Even  so  this  man,  Lyons, 
had  been  betrayed  by  a  weakness  of  the  will.  She 
was  thankful  for  the  failing  light.  In  their  eagerness 
to  discuss  the  good  news  of  Frank's  sale,  the  others 
did  not  notice  her  tears. 

About  ten  days  after  this  private  view,  Win  tele- 
phoned one  evening  to  find  if  the  girls  were  home. 
And  a  few  minutes  later  he  appeared,  looking  utterly 
disconsolate. 


78  THE  STRANGER 

"  Frank's  going  to  marry  her,"  he  announced. 

"  The  model  ?  "  they  both  asked  at  once. 

He  nodded  gloomily  and  then  a  wry  smile  came  over 
his  face. 

"  I'm  in  bad.  After  I  met  her  the  first  time,  when 
he'd  been  working  only  a  few  days  —  I  asked  him  how 
it  was  possible  for  such  a  beautiful  person  to  be  such 
a  pinhead?" 

Helen  laughed,  but  Eunice  said: 

"  She  is  stupid." 

"  That's  the  tragedy,"  Win  agreed.  "  She's  awful. 
This  is  worse  than  I  feared,  worse  than  getting 
drunk." 

"  You  don't  either  of  you  know  her  well  enough  to 
talk  like  that,"  Helen  said  sensibly.  "  Frank  is  the 
only  one  who's  seen  much  of  her.  He's  marrying 
her  —  not  you  people.     It's  his  affair." 

"  It  is?  "  Win  said  combatively.  "  I'm  not  so  sure. 
I'm  blue  about  it,  because  I'm  thinking  of  his  work. 
That  doesn't  belong  just  to  him.  It  belongs  to  all 
of  us  —  to  all  the  world.  And  marrying  her  won't 
help  it.  Why !  He  says  he's  going  to  stop  painting 
and  get  a  regular  job  as  an  illustrator  —  to  support 
her!  He's  already  starting  on  some  drawings  for 
Bruce  Lyons'  next  thriller.     It's  tragic !  " 

All  the  evening  they  talked  it  over.  Win  told  and 
retold  all  he  knew  and  it  was  not  much.  He  had  been 
completely  surprised  by  the  news.  There  was  noth- 
ing for  him  to  do  but  accept  the  situation.  Luckily, 
Lancaster  was  moving  uptown,  so  Win  piled  his  be- 
longings on  a  cart  and  moved  across  the  Square  to 
share  "  The  Diggings  "  with  Pete  McGee. 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  79 

The  affair  seemed  just  as  tragic  to  Eunice  as  it 
did  to  Win.  She  could  not  understand  it.  She  did 
not  take  Frank's  renunciation  of  painting  very  seri- 
ously—  that  was  just  weariness  after  the  tense  burst 
of  work.  But  somehow,  vaguely,  she  felt  that  Frank 
would  never  paint  so  well  again.  Something  incal- 
culable and  irrational  had  laid  hold  of  her  friend 
and  had  twisted  him  out  of  his  path,  out  of  the  road 
of  his  destiny.  She  was  grieved,  because  she  felt 
that  in  some  indefinite  way  her  friend  had  been 
lessened. 

The  marriage  also  disturbed  the  other  friends. 
Lillian,  the  newcomer,  was  not  welcomed.  She  did 
her  best  to  be  friendly,  but  she  suffered  from  numer- 
ous handicaps.  She  was  too  ill-educated  to  talk 
intelligently  on  any  subject  that  interested  them. 
There  was  a  fatuous  self-assertiveness  about  her 
ignorance  which  made  her  simplest  conversational 
efforts  a  failure.  And  she  seemed  to  think  that  as 
a  married  woman  she  could  speak  with  authority  to 
the  other  girls.  Worst  of  all,  she  was  an  idler.  She 
was  not  even  apologetic  about  it.  She  seemed  to 
think  that  being  adored  was  a  sufficient  occupa- 
tion. 

She  would  not  have  been  tolerated  by  any  of  the 
friends,  if  they  had  not  all  been  so  fond  of  Frank. 
But  he  made  it  very  clearly  a  case  of  "  Love  me,  love 
my  dog."  They  could  not  give  him  up,  so  they  did 
their  best  to  be  at  least  formally  cordial  to  her. 
What  he  thought  about  the  situation,  nobody  knew. 
He  gave  no  sign  of  any  discontent. 

As  the  months  passed  by,  it  became  evident  that, 


80  THE  STRANGER 

far  from  helping  Frank  in  his  career,  she  was  allow- 
ing him  to  go,  artistically  speaking,  to  the  dogs.  His 
illustrations  of  Bruce  Lyons'  novel  were  a  marked 
success  and  one  of  the  best  publishing  houses  in  New 
York  was  planning  an  extensive  reprint  of  the  English 
classics,  in  uniform  and  expensive  bindings.  The 
series  was  to  be  a  chef  d'oeuvre  of  the  bookmaking  art ; 
they  decided  that  Frank  was  just  the  man  they  needed 
for  the  illustrations  and  signed  him  on  for  a  five-year 
contract  at  five  thousand  a  year. 

The  news  of  this  contract  came  as  a  thunderbolt 
to  the  friends.  The  hostility  to  Lillian  became  pas- 
sionate. This  seemed  a  definite  giving  up  of  his 
mission  in  life.  How  could  she  have  permitted  it? 
Often  behind  his  back  they  discussed  whether  he  was 
happy.  How  could  he  be  with  such  a  woman  — 
coarse-grained,  petty,  lacking  in  all  ideals?  Win, 
who  saw  most  of  him,  was  the  most  pessimistic.  But 
their  councils  came  to  nothing  except  a  general  agree- 
ment that,  if  anybody  could  do  anything,  it  was 
Eunice.  They  all  realized  that  she  had  a  surer  touch 
with  Frank  than  the  rest  of  them. 

"  Why,  there's  nothing  I  could  do,"  she  would  reply 
to  their  vague  urgings.  but  she  continually  turned 
the  matter  over  in  her  mind.  She  was  reluctant  to 
interfere,  but  more  than  any  of  them  she  felt  the 
tragedy  of  Frank's  renunciation.  Herself  a  mere 
illustrator,  who  mourned  that  she  could  not  paint, 
she  felt  poignantly  the  meaning  of  his  sacrifice.  And 
so,  at  last,  without  telling  any  one  that  she  had  de- 
cided to  act,  she  telephoned  to  Frank  and  asked  him 
to  come  around  and  help  her  out  of  a  tangle  in  her 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  81 

drawing.  But  her  easel  was  folded  up  against  the 
wall,  when  he  came. 

"  I  lied  to  you,"  she  said.  "  It  isn't  my  drawing 
at  all  —  that  doesn't  matter.  I  wanted  to  talk  with 
you.  Oh,  it's  impertinent  —  very  personal  —  none  of 
my  business." 

She  noticed  him  go  tense  in  a  defensive,  almost 
hostile  attitude. 

"  Sit  down  a  minute,  please.  It's  this  way,  Frank. 
Doesn't  affection  give  any  rights?  You  must  know 
how  we  all  love  you.  Remember  that  line  from 
'Timon  of  Athens' — 'I  am  wealthy  in  my  friends'? 
You're  very  rich.  The  first  day  I  was  here  in  New 
York,  I  was  sick  and  Mary  was  taking  care  of  me, 
telling  me  about  the  friends  I  would  meet.  '  Frank,' 
she  said,  *  you're  sure  to  like  him.  Everybody  does.' 
And  so  I've  found  it.  You  know  we're  fond  of  you. 
Win  especially.     He'd  go  through  fire  for  you. 

"  And  we  can't  care  for  you  like  this  without  being 
interested  —  in  your  work  —  in  everything  that  hap- 
pens to  you.  It  isn't  just  gossipy  curiosity.  It's 
because  we  love  you.  And  now  we're  worried  — 
about  this  illustrating.  We'd  all  set  our  hearts  on 
your  going  on  with  your  painting  —  on  and  up. 
I'on't  you  see,  Frank,  I'm  not  talking  this  way  just 
on  my  own  account?  —  but  it's  all  of  us  —  your 
friends.  Can't  you  tell  us  about  it  —  so  we'll  un- 
derstand? " 

Frank  got  up  and  came  over  to  the  couch  where 
she  lay,  took  up  her  hand,  and  kissed  it.  Then  he 
walked  over  to  the  window,  etching  designs  in  the 
frost,  for  several  minutes.    When  at  last  he  turned 


82  THE  STRANGER 

there  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  drew  up  a  hassock 
beside  the  couch  and  took  her  hand. 

"  I  don't  deserve  such  friends."  He  shook  his  head 
sharply,  as  though  to  drive  the  huskiness  from  his 
voice.  "  But  don't  you  understand?  This  is  a  thing 
you  can't  talk  about.  One  doesn't  discuss  one's  wife, 
even  with  the  best  of  friends.  I'm  sure  you  know  — 
you  and  the  friends  —  that  this  is  a  matter  between 
Lillian  and  me.  I  can't  talk  about  it.  But  it's  going 
to  come  out  all  right.  That's  what  I  want  you  to  say 
when  you  tell  them  about  this  talk." 

"  They  don't  know  we're  having  it.  I  won't  tell 
them  anything." 

"  No,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "  I'd  rather  you  did 
tell  them.  I  don't  want  them  to  think  I  am  snippy 
or  unfriendly.  Falling  in  love  with  Lillian  hasn't 
had  that  effect.  And  you  know  " —  he  went  on  with 
quiet,  sure  emphasis  — "  I  am  in  love  with  her. 
More  now  than  the  day  I  married  her — or  the  day 
before.  But  it  hasn't  made  me  value  my  friends  any 
the  less.  Only  —  well  —  ycju  must  all  see  it,  so 
there's  no  harm  saying  it  —  I  have  a  problem  on  my 
hands.  A  problem  I  must  work  out  for  myself. 
Lillian  is  different  from  you,  from  all  my  friends, 
different  from  anybody  I  ever  knew.  But  I  don't 
think  you  people  are  quite  fair  to  her.  She's  never 
had  a  decent  chance,  she  hasn't  had  the  opportunities 
you  people  have  had.  Her  mother  seems  to  have  been 
the  big  influence  in  her  life.  She's  been  taught  stand- 
ards of  value  that  are  different  —  wrong,  all  wrong. 
1  The  Transvaluation  of  all  Values  ' —  that's  my  job, 
as  I  see  it.     I  don't  suppose  it  will  be  easy,  but  I'll 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  83 

succeed.  So  much  depends  on  success  —  everything 
for  me!" 

u  As  I  said,"  he  went  on  after  a  long  pause,  "  it's 
my  job  —  something  I  can't  let  out  to  any  subcon- 
tractor—  however  friendly.  Marriages  aren't  made 
in  heaven,  they're  made  in  the  home.  And  these  inti- 
mate things  of  the  home  —  well  —  one  doesn't  talk 
about  them.  I  know  you  people's  friendliness.  It's 
wonderful  —  undeserved  —  infinitely  precious.  But 
there's  nothing  you  can  do  to  help  me  in  this  job. 
Nothing  but  to  trust  me  —  to  go  on  being  friendly 

—  to  me  and  to  her.  Yes,  that  would  help.  The 
more  she  feels  that  you  people  are  friendly,  the  easier 
it  will  be  for  me.  She  wants  to  learn  our  ways.  And 
I  want  her  to  like  you  all. 

"  That's  what  I  wish  you'd  tell  the  friends  only,'' 

—  he  kissed  her  hand  again  — "  I  know  you  will  say  it 
so  much  better  than  I  could.  I've  been  afraid  to  say 
anything  —  afraid  it  might  sound  as  if  I  were  com- 
plaining. I'm  not  —  not  at  all!  Don't  let  them 
think  that  for  a  minute.  I  couldn't  talk  to  Win  — 
or  the  others,  but  —  well  —  thanks  to  you." 

He  got  up  and  went  again  to  the  window.  "  This 
had  to  be  said,"  he  remarked  over  his  shoulder,  "  but 
I  couldn't  say  it  without  help.     Thanks." 

In  a  moment  he  came  back  to  the  hassock. 

u  You  and  I  are  both  wealthy  in  our  friends.  We 
all  love  you,  too.  I  do.  You  are  the  newest  —  and 
best  —  of  my  f  riends  and  so  I  can  talk  to  you  a  little 
more  freely  than  to  the  others.  You  mustn't  worry 
about  the  illustrating.  A  few  years  —  what  do  tney 
matter?    And  loving  —  it's  really  better  than  paint- 


84  THE  STRANGER 

ing.  Only  it's  more  like  sculpture  —  modeling  — 
flesh  and  blood  —  and  spirit  —  instead  of  cold  clay. 
Think  of  me  that  way  —  working  just  as  hard  as  you 
ever  saw  me  work  on  a  picture  —  harder.  But  the 
same  old  job  —  trying  to  make  something  beautiful  — 
something  for  the  goddess. 

"  Of  course,  I  hate  the  illustrating.  But  it's  just 
as  in  the  early  days  —  when  I  had  to  do  chores  to 
earn  money  for  my  paints.  I  was  a  waiter  in  a 
restaurant  once.  I  loathed  it,  but  that  didn't  matter 
—  I  earned  enough  to  paint  my  first  real  picture  — 
'  The  Study  in  Moonlight  Grays.'  So  now  I  have  to 
do  this  chore  —  to  finance  the  bigger  job." 

"  But  couldn't  you  earn  quite  as  much  painting? 
That  would  keep  your  edges  sharp.  They'll  get  dull 
at  this  —  dull  and  rusty." 

"  Yes,"  Frank  admitted,  "  there's  danger  of  that. 
But  all  the  good  work  I  ever  did,  I  did  for  love.  I 
can't  spoil  the  devotions  now  by  passing  the  collec- 
tion basket.  I  couldn't  take  a  fee  from  the  goddess 
any  more  than  I  could  charge  a  price  for  loving 
Lillian.  It's  different  when  somebody  likes  what  you 
have  done  —  done  for  love  of  doing  it,  done  because 
you  couldn't  help  doing  it  —  and  pays  you  for  it, 
from  sitting  down  to  paint  to  order.  No,  I  can't 
paint  for  money.     Least  of  all  now. 

"Don't  you  understand?  That's  what  Lillian  and 
her  mother  want  me  to  do.  That's  the  standard  of 
value  she's  learned  from  her  mother  —  money.  I'm 
trying  to  make  her  understand  that  one  doesn't  wor- 
ship for  pay.  That's  my  job  —  to  make  her  under- 
stand." 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  85 

Frank  got  up  abruptly  and  started  to  go  —  as 
though  he  had  said  more  than  he  had  intended.  But 
at  the  doorway,  he  turned  back  and  c^me  again  to  her 
couch. 

"  Of  course,  I  can't  find  words  to  thank  you  —  you 
and  the  friends  —  for  your  interest.  I  know  it's  kind. 
But  I  —  Oh,  I  can't  say  it !  All  I  can  do  is  to  kiss 
your  hand  once  more." 

"  I  don't  think  Lillian  would  object,"  Eunice  said, 
"  if  you  kissed  my  cheek." 

It  was  in  1908  that  Eunice  had  come  to  the  city. 
Within  a  year,  Frank  had  married  Lillian,  a  few 
months  later,  Mary's  doctor  came  home  from  Vienna 
and  carried  her  off  to  Calfornia.  On  all  sides,  Eunice 
saw  the  handiwork  of  the  most  capricious  of  the  gods. 
Herself  too  ill  to  dream  of  love  as  a  personal  adven- 
ture, she  listened  all  the  more  eagerly  to  the  stories 
others  told  her. 

There  was  a  young  girl  from  the  South  —  on  the 
outer  edge  of  their  circle  —  who  had  come  to  New 
York  to  paint  and  had  been  distracted  by  a  writer  of 
verse,  at  once  "  libre "  and  libertine.  Frank  and 
II<len  between  them  had  snatched  the  arsenic  bottle 
from  her  lips,  lent  her  some  money,  and  found  her  a 
job.  She  sobbed  out  all  the  details  of  this  amorous 
misadventure  to  Eunice.  Insisting  that  she  had  al- 
ways despised  the  man  as  much  as  she  had  loved 
him,  she  lived  in  constant  terror  that  she  might  en- 
counter him  again  by  accident  and  that  he  might 
beckon  to  her. 

Then  in  contrast  to  this  mad  lark  of  Cupid's,  Lan- 
caster and  Irene  —  just  when  the  excitement  caused 


86  THE  STRANGER 

by  Frank's  wedding  was  cooling  down  —  announced 
their  marriage.  There  had  been  no  foolish  whoop-de- 
doo  about  this  affair  —  they  had  had  the  knot  tied 
by  a  magistrate.  They  were  rather  boastful  of  the 
placid  and  quiet  way  it  which  it  had  been  done.  They 
did  not  like  fireworks.  Nothing  was  changed  in  their 
outward  circumstances,  Irene  kept  her  maiden  name, 
went  on  with  her  work,  continued  to  live  in  the  Set- 
tlement. In  fact  the  only  visible  effect  of  the  new 
arrangement  was  that  it  became  impossible  to  find 
either  of  them  free  for  week-end  picnics.  But  behind 
this  fagade  of  casualness,  in  which  they  took  an  in- 
nocent pride,  Eunice  got  glimpses  of  something  vital 
and  vibrant,  some  strange,  new  content  to  their  lives 
which  she  could  not  wholly  comprehend. 

For  the  best  part  of  every  day  she  was  alone,  walk- 
ing in  the  Square,  working  over  her  drawings, 
stretched  out  on  her  couch  with  a  book.  In  these 
solitary  hours,  she  very  often  thought  over  the  love 
affairs  of  her  friends.  Love  was  something  to  mull 
over  and  ponder  deeply.  Just  because  her  interest 
was  so  impersonal,  it  was  the  more  acute.  She  read 
everything  she  could  find  on  the  subject,  from  Car- 
penter's "  Love's  Coming  of  Age  "  to  Havelock  Ellis. 

Whether  or  not  "  Love  is  Best "  she  could  not  de- 
cide, but  one  thing  seemed  certain  —  Love  is  Strong- 
est. No  other  force,  which  she  could  observe,  seemed 
to  her  so  tremendous.  Even  the  stoutest  personali- 
ties swayed  under  its  pressure.  Helen,  usually  so 
firm,  so  sure  of  herself,  did  not  seem  firm  nor  sure 
in  regard  to  Pete.  Eunice  thought  about  these  two 
very  often.     Was  it  a  match?     All  the  rest  of  the 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  87 

friends  thought  it  was,  but  she  hoped  not.  For  of  all 
of  Helen's  friends,  she  liked  Pete  least.  In  this  — 
as  she  would  have  admitted  herself  —  she  was  less 
than  fair  to  him  —  she  knew  him  least.  When  he 
came  to  the  Flat,  it  was  so  obviously  to  see  Helen  that 
Eunice  had  no  chance  to  get  acquainted.  But  she 
could  readily  see  why  Helen  preferred  him.  Lancaster 
lived  in  the  world  of  abstract  ideas.  Frank  and  Win 
had  the  artist's  preoccupation  with  form.  But  Pete 
"  got  things  done  " —  concrete,  tangible  things.  His 
work  —  lobbying  reform  measures  through  the  State 
legislature  at  Albany  —  was  something  Helen  could 
grasp.  Politics  seemed  more  real  to  her  than  philoso- 
phy or  literature  or  painting.  But  while  Eunice 
could  see  that  Helen  liked  Pete  best,  it  was  equally 
clear  to  her  that  Helen  was  very  uncertain  as  to  her 
personal  relations  with  him. 

Other  things  Helen  could  bend  to  her  will,  but  this 
was  something  she  could  not  control.  Love  was  an 
unsolved  problem  for  her.  In  all  her  comments  on 
the  amorous  adventures  of  her  friends,  she  showed  her 
own  uncertainty.  She,  so  decisive  in  other  things, 
was  plainly  bluffed. 

There  had  been  a  long  and  great  intimacy  between 
them.  During  the  fight  for  the  Child  Labor  Law  they 
had  worked  together  constantly.  And  this  fine,  frank 
friendship  seemed  to  satisfy  Helen  entirely.  She  was 
a  partisan  of  the  Status  Quo.  But  clearly,  it  did  not 
satisfy  Pete.  At  frequent  intervals,  it  was  obvious  to 
Eunice  that  he  was  "  spoiling  things  "  again. 

Helen  ordinarily  rode  on  the  floodtide  of  life. 
Things  went  well  with  her,  and  the  success  which 


88  THE  STRANGER 

commonly  crowned  her  efforts  was  always  earned. 
She  threw  herself  whole-heartedly,  untiringly,  into 
every  job  she  undertook,  and  she  stuck  to  it  till  it  was 
finished. 

She  was  blessed  with  a  better  brain  than  most 
people,  direct,  incisive,  quick  at  grasping  essentials. 
It  had  been  well  trained  at  college  and,  sitting  at  the 
feet  of  Experience,  she  was  learning  all  the  time. 
Above  all  she  was  not  hasty  nor  rash.  She  believed 
in  thinking  things  out  in  advance.  She  had  learned 
that  it  pays  better  to  have  on  idea  a  month  that  works 
out,  than  a  dozen  a  day  which  go  wrong. 

Her  optimism  was  not  of  the  fatuous  —  "  God's  in 
His  heaven,  all's  right  with  the  world  " —  kind.  She 
found  the  world  appallingly  wrong,  but  she  had  a  firm 
faith  in  the  possibility  of  putting  things  right.  It 
seemed  to  her  only  a  matter  of  will  and  skill,  of  per- 
sistent, intelligent  effort. 

"  Spot  has  entire  faith  in  the  last  act,"  Pete  said 
jeeringly,  at  one  of  their  gatherings.  "  She's  not  dis- 
couraged by  the  complications  of  the  earlier  scenes. 
The  industrious  Dramatist  always  invents  a  denoue- 
ment—  an  untying.  And  Spot  —  although  she  will 
deny  it  —  has  faith  that  the  Great  Dramatist,  who 
sets  the  scene  on  this  world  stage  of  ours,  will  pull 
off  a  final  curtain  which  will  make  the  universe  ap- 
plaud." 

"  Kubbish !  "  Helen  had  retorted.  "  I'm  not  rely- 
ing on  any  Great  Dramatist  to  do  our  job  for  us. 
Your  comparison  is  all  wrong.  Stage  people  are  only 
puppets  —  reciting  the  lines  the  author  has  given 
them.     But  we're  not  puppets.     We  have  wills  of  our 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  89 

own.  I  do  have  faith  in  the  last  act  —  not  because 
of  any  Beneficent  Dramatist  —  but  because  we  can  im- 
pose our  wills  on  the  tangle  —  untie  it  ourselves." 

"  I  am  the  master  of  my  fate,"  Pete  chanted,  "  the 
captain  of  my  soul." 

"  Well,  aren't  you?  "  Helen  demanded.     "  I  am." 

But  if  Helen  were  the  captain  of  her  soul,  it  seemed 
to  Eunice  that  her  hand  on  the  rudder  was  singularly 
wobbly  and  uncertain,  when  it  came  to  steering  a  fixed 
course  in  regard  to  Pete. 

At  times  Helen  came  home  on  a  low  tide,  more  or 
less  in  the  dumps,  certainly  at  odds  with  life.  And 
Eunice  knew  that  Pete  had  been  "  spoiling  things  " 
again.  For  a  year  or  more  they  had  no  conversation 
on  the  subject,  but  at  last  her  curiosity  got  the  upper 
hand. 

It  had  been  a  silent,  moody  supper.  Helen  had  had 
almost  nothing  to  say. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  Eunice  asked.  "  Has  Pete 
been  proposing  again?" 

Helen  laughed  assent. 

"  Does  it  show?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  can  generally  tell." 

Helen  talked  of  other  things  through  the  rest  of 
the  meal.  But,  although  she  had  laid  out  some  papers 
to  work  after  supper,  she  abruptly  turned  away  from 
them  to  talk. 

u  I  don't  understand  it.  I  don't  understand  him. 
And  sometimes  I  don't  understand  myself." 

After  this  sweeping  announcement  of  her  fallibility, 
she  lit  a  cigarette  and  made  herself  comfortable  on  the 
foot  of  Eunice's  couch. 


90  THE  STRANGER 

"  It  isn't  a  thing  yon  can  reason  out." 

This  statement  also  was  a  very  sweeping  departure 
from  her  ordinary  point  of  view  and  she  hastened  to 
qualify  it. 

"At  least  we  don't  know  enough  about  this  busi- 
ness of  falling  in  love  to  be  sure  of  our  reasoning. 
There  aren't  any  good  textbooks.  What's  the  differ- 
ence between  friendship  and  love?  All  we  know  is 
that  there  is  a  difference  —  a  big  difference. 

"  Now,  I  like  Pete  —  better  than  any  man  I  know. 
I  know  him  best.  I  know  him  well  —  all  except  this 
love  side  of  him.  I  don't  understand  that  —  so  I'm 
frightened  of  it. 

"  I  like  to  be  with  him.  I  like  his  talk  —  he's  really 
serious  behind  his  fun-making.  Above  all,  he's  a 
wonderful  fellow  to  work  with.  When  he  wants  to 
be,  he  is  a  perfect  friend.  But  every  once  in  a  while 
he  has  a  brain  storm  —  spoils  everything." 

"  But,"  Eunice  put  in,  "  you  ought  to  know  your 
own  mind  by  this  time.  Are  you  going  to  marry 
him?" 

"  No,"  Helen  said  it  sharply,  without  any  qualifica- 
tion in  her  tone. 

"  No,  I'm  not  going  to  marry  him. —  I  know  what 
you  think,"  she  went  on.  "  If  my  mind  is  made  up 
not  to  marry  him,  I  ought  to  send  him  packing. 
That's  the  storybook  solution.  But  why  should  I? 
Of  course,  I  would  be  an  awful  cad  if  I  gave  him  any 
encouragement,  but  I  don't.  I've  told  him,  a  hundred 
times,  that  I  don't  care  for  him  that  way.  I  do  value 
his  friendship  —  immensely  —  but  I've  never  asked 
him  to  hang  around. 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  91 

"  I  don't  like  the  storybook  solution.  It's  too 
simple  —  and  the  problem  isn't  simple.  After  all, 
we're  grown-up  people.  We  have  our  work  to  do. 
Shall  I  resign  from  The  Child  Labor  Committee,  just 
because  he  thinks  he's  in  love  with  me?  Shall  I  ask 
him  to  stop  working  for  the  law  —  so  I  won't  have 
to  see  him?  Shall  I  ask  him  to  move  away  from  New 
York  and  give  up  all  his  friends  here,  because  the 
sight  of  him  offends  me?  It  doesn't,  you  know.  Or 
shall  I  cut  loose  and  look  for  a  job  in  Chicago? 

"  No,  that  seems  to  me  foolish.  I  put  it  up  to  him 
just  as  straight  as  I  can.  And  as  far  as  getting 
married  goes  —  there's  nothing  doing !  I  say  to  him 
—  let's  accept  that  fact  —  forget  it  —  go  on  with  our 
work  together,  our  solid,  fine,  old  friendship." 

"What  does  he  say?"  Eunice  asked. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  what  he  says,"  Helen  replied 
wearily.  "  One  time  he  says  this  —  the  next  time  he 
says  that.  Sometimes  he's  fine  about  it  —  shakes 
hands  in  good-fellowship  and  all  goes  well  —  for  a 
while.  Sometimes  he  storms  and  rages  —  storms  out 
of  the  room  and  goes  off  to  Albany  for  a  week  or  so. 
But  pretty  soon  he  comes  to  his  senses  —  full  of 
apologies  and  good  intentions  —  and  things  go 
smoothly  again  for  a  while.  But  it  doesn't  matter 
what  he  says.  Pretty  soon  he  gets  moody  and  de- 
jected —  oh,  I  can  see  it  coming.  I  do  the  best  I  can 
to  prevent  it,  but  he  breaks  out  again.  And  it  takes  it 
out  of  me.     To-day  it  was  fierce." 

Eunice  kept  breathlessly  still,  in  breathless  curi- 
osity. 

"  My  cigarette's  gone  out,"  Helen  said,  getting  up 


92  THE  STRANGER 

for  a  match.  She  walked  nervously,  puffing  to  get 
the  light  well  started.  "  It  was  disgusting !  "  She 
stopped  iri~  front  of  Eunice.  "  It  makes  me  mad  — 
to  get  stirred  up  like  this.  It's  so  senseless.  He  came 
into  the  office  just  before  closing  time  and  as  soon 
as  the  girls  had  gone  be  broke  loose.  Worse  than 
usual  —  a  lot!  I  suppose  some  one  had  been  tell- 
ing him  — '  Faint  heart  ne'er  won  fair  lady,  ho  '  or 
such  rot.  Perhaps  he'd  been  reading  a  Jack  London 
caveman  story.  Anyhow  that's  the  way  he  acted  — 
tried  to  carry  things  by  storm!     It  was  so  idiotic! 

"  This  time  I'm  really  angry.  I  suppose  I'll  just 
have  to  make  up  my  mind  to  it  —  that  a  woman 
can't  have  decent  friendships  with  men.  It's  tout  ou 
rien  with  them.  Just  because  I  don't  want  to  sit 
in  his  lap  and  be  pawed  over,  I  must  give  up  this  old 
friendship.     It  makes  me  sick !  " 

"  But  don't  you  want  to  get  married? "  Eunice 
asked.     "Ever?" 

"  That's  the  funny  part  of  it,"  Helen  said,  sitting 
down.  "  Of  course  I  do.  When  I  was  a  girl  I  didn't 
like  children.  Now  I  wish  I  had  some  of  my  own. 
Sometimes  I  want  very  much  to  get  married. 

"  It  really  is  funny.  There  was  one  time  —  just 
before  you  came  to  New  York  —  I  nearly  did  marry 
Pete.  But  it  wasn't  love  —  it  was  just  loneliness. 
I  went  up  to  Vassar  to  speak  before  their  Civic  Club 
during  Commencement  Week.  I'd  never  known  I  was 
sentimental  before.  But,  one  night  —  well,  the  Five 
Year  Class  was  having  its  reunion  on  the  campus. 
They  had  a  sheet  up  between  two  trees.  The  com- 
mittee had  had  magic  lantern  slides  made  from  the 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  93 

photographs  of  the  girls'  families.  And  each  girl  had 
to  get  up  when  her  pictures  were  thrown  on  the  screen 
and  make  a  speech  —  introducing  her  family  to  the 
others. 

"  Of  course  it  wasn't  my  class.  I  didn't  know  any 
of  the  girls.  I  sat  out  on  the  fringe  of  the  crowd  and 
watched.  Some  of  the  girls  were  silly  and  the 
speeches  they  made  about  their  husbands  and  children 
were  sickening.  One  girl  was  already  a  widow  and 
broke  down  completely  when  her  husband's  picture 
appeared.  But  most  of  them  had  —  or  pretended  to 
have  —  joyous  stories  to  tell.  Each  married  woman 
seemed  very  proud  of  i  her  man.'  They  were  con- 
descendingly superior  to  their  classmates  who  hadn't 
married. 

"  And  somehow  —  well  —  it  got  my  nerve.  It 
made  me  —  sitting  there  by  myself  —  appallingly 
lonely.  It  frightened  me.  Here  was  I,  from  the  mar- 
rying point  of  view,  letting  my  best  years  go  to  waste. 
I  had  a  terrifying  picture  of  myself  as  a  lonely  old 
maid  —  nobody  caring  for  me  —  a  cat  and  all  that. 
And  the  babies  in  those  lantern  pictures  looked  very 
wonderful. 

"  Well,  I  had  to  catch  the  earliest  train  in  the  morn- 
ing so  it  wasn't  worth  while  going  to  bed.  I  sat  up 
what  was  left  of  the  night  out  on  the  campus,  under 
the  trees.  I  almost  made  up  my  mind  to  marry  Pete. 
If  he'd  only  known  what  was  going  on  inside  of  me 
then,  he  might  have  had  me." 

"  You  speak  —  almost  regretfully." 

"  No,  not  at  all !  As  I  said,  it  was  only  loneliness. 
Pete  missed  his  chance  and  I  got  over  it.     It  was  a 


94  THE  STRANGER 

strange  sentimental  fit  that  came  and  went.  It 
wasn't  Pete.  Why,  I'd  have  almost  married  a  police- 
man that  morning  —  or  the  black  Pullman  porter  — 
any  one  who  asked  me.  I  was  so  lonely.  It  wasn't 
love.  No,  not  at  all !  It  would  have  been  awful  if  I'd 
married  Pete." 

"  So,"  Eunice  summed  it  up,  "  you  don't  want  him, 
but  you  do  want  to  marry  somebody?" 

Helen  nodded  an  unenthusiastic  assent. 

"  It  isn't  quite  so  simple  as  that,"  she  said.  "  Mar- 
riage in  the  abstract  doesn't  smile  to  me  especially. 
That  fit  of  loneliness  passed.  I'm  not  afraid  of  the 
future.  But  I  would  like  to  care  for  some  one  — 
really  love  some  one." 

"Well,  then,"  Eunice  said,  "I  hope  Pete  disap- 
pears." 

Helen  looked  a  question. 

"  It  would  give  Win  a  chance.  He  thinks  you're  en- 
gaged to  Pete." 

"  Oh,  pooh !  "  Helen  sniffed.  "  Win  doesn't  care  for 
me  —  not  that  way." 

"  Win's  fine,"  Eunice  said. 

"  Yes.     A  fine  friend." 

"  But  you  said  you  did  not  believe  men  and  women 
could  be  friends." 

"  That  was  foolishness.  I  was  discouraged  — 
thinking  of  Pete.     Win's  different." 

Eunice  did  not  look  convinced. 

It  was  something  of  a  shock  to  Eunice  when  Pete 
dropped  in  to  dinner  one  night  a  week  or  ten  days 
after  this  talk.  He  was  unchanged,  as  merry,  as  un- 
concerned as  ever.     It  was  more  of  a  shock  to  her  to 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  95 

see  that  Helen  accepted  the  renewal  of  diplomatic  re- 
lations as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

In  this  matter  Helen  was  obviously  less  decisive, 
less  sure  of  herself,  than  usual. 

For  more  than  four  years  —  and  it  had  been  going 
on  before  she  came  to  New  York  —  Eunice  watched, 
with  acute  curiosity,  this  strange  friendship  between 
Helen  and  Pete.  She  could  see  no  progress,  no  "  get- 
ting anywhere."  It  became  her  regular  little  joke, 
whenever  Helen  looked  depressed,  to  ask :  "  Has  Pete 
been  spoiling  things  again  ? "  Generally  Helen 
nodded  a  gloomy  assent. 

In  the  spring  of  1913,  Pete  became  suddenly  and 
noticeably  rarefied.  He  explained  that  he  was  very 
busy  in  Albany.  He  was  seldom  in  the  city  and  rarely 
stayed  overnight  when  he  came.  As  much  as  three 
weeks  would  pass  without  his  appearing  at  the  Flat. 

"  Is  he  really  getting  tired  at  last?  "  Eunice  asked 
herself.  "  Or  is  he  trying  to  make  Helen  miss  him?  " 
She  watched  her  friend  closely,  but  could  see  no  in- 
dication of  her  feeling.  Early  in  September  the  news 
exploded  that  Pete  was  engaged  to  a  Miss  Grace 
Caldwell,  the  daughter  of  a  State  senator  in  Albany. 
Helen  was  the  only  one  of  the  friends  who  took  the 
news  calmly.  She  said  that  she  had  known  for  a  long 
time.  But  it  was  weeks  before  she  would  talk  to 
Eunice  about  it.  She  had  never  been  so  uncommuni- 
cative before,  and  at  last  Eunice,  unable  to  stand 
the  silence  longer,  asked  Helen  if  she  knew  the  girl. 

"  Oh,  yes,  slightly.  She's  a  little  '  pink  face/  a 
Dresden  doll  effect  — '  nobody  home  '  sort  of  person 
—  utterly    stupid.     Her    mother    tries    to    be    the 


96  THE  STRANGER 

Madam  Roland  of  the  Progressives  —  tries  to  run  a 
political  salon.  Every  one  laughs  at  her  and  Grace  is 
worse  —  just  out  of  finishing  school.  I'm  sick  about 
it." 

Still  Helen  seemed  reluctant  to  talk  and  changed 
the  subject;  but,  after  Eunice  was  in  bed,  she  came 
and  sat  with  her  a  while. 

"  Of  course  everybody  thinks  I'm  jealous,"  she  said, 
"  but  I'm  not.  God  knows  I  could  have  married  him, 
if  I'd  wanted  to.  But  I  can't  help  feeling  bad  about 
it.  Perhaps  it's  a  good  thing  for  him.  He  seems 
pleased^.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  rejoice  with  him,  but 
I  can't,  she  seems  such  a  fool.  In  a  way  I  suppose 
I  am  jealous  —  just  as  Win  is  so  jealous  of  Lillian. 
It  means  losing  a  friend,  the  best  friend  I  ever  had. 
Grace  and  I  could  never  be  friends  —  and  besides, 
Pete,  like  a  fool,  told  her  that  he'd  been  in  love  with 
me.  She's  afraid  I'll  try  to  pry  him  loose!  She'd 
raise  a  horrible  squawk,  if  she  should  hear  that  I  was 
having  lunch  with  him.  No,  he's  a  total  loss,  no  hope 
of  salvage.     And  he  has  meant  so  much  to  me." 

Helen  could  think  of  no  more  to  say  on  the  sub- 
ject and  went  dejectedly  to  bed. 

So  the  Fates  had  dealt  with  Eunice.  An  ogre  held 
her  captive  in  a  grim  tower.  She  could  look  out 
through  the  grated  windows  of  her  narrow  cell  on 
the  people  outside,  who  were  engaged  in  the  real 
processes  of  living,  and  from  time  to  time  they 
brought  her  stories  of  their  adventures  in  the  great 
open  spaces  beyond  her  sight.  In  West  Newleigh  she 
had  lived  mostly  in  the  children ;  here,  in  New  York, 
she  lived  through  Helen  and  her  friends.     Her  con- 


LOVE  AND  THE  OTHERS  97 

tact  with  most  of  what  is  the  reality  of  our  life,  had 
always  been  indirect  and  secondhand. 

Into  this  world  of  hers,  the  Stranger  —  from  a 
world  so  different  —  wandered  in  the  week  before 
Thanksgiving  in  the  year  1913. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   FLAT 

Helen  had  fitted  up  a  workroom  for  herself  in  the 
apartment  she  shared  with  Eunice.  Her  regular 
office  was  in  the  Charities  Building  on  Fourth  Ave- 
nue. But  often  when  she  did  not  want  to  be  disturbed 
by  the  routine  work  of  directing  her  staff,  she  spent 
the  afternoon  at  home  and  there  she  sometimes  made 
appointments. 

On  the  Thursday,  after  the  Stranger  had  been  in- 
troduced at  Win's  breakfast  party,  she  was  sitting  in 
this  private  office  with  Mrs.  van  Loo,  the  president 
of  "  The  Association  for  the  Aid  of  Tubercular  Chil- 
dren."  She  was  refusing  the  proffered  position  as 
financial  secretary  of  the  Association. 

Mrs.  van  Loo  was  a  large  woman.  She  would  have 
looked  motherly  if  she  had  not  been  so  elaborately 
and  expensively  gotten  up  to  appear  young. 

"  The  board  authorized  me/'  she  said,  "  to  offer  you 
thirty-five  hundred.  But  we  want  you  very  much. 
I  think  —  this  is  unofficial,  of  course  —  but  I  think 
we  might  arrange  four  thousand." 

"  It  isn't  the  salary,  Mrs.  van  Loo,"  Helen  said. 
"  I  couldn't  honorably  throw  up  my  present  job  till 
the  work  is  well  organized.  And  I'm  promised  to  the 
National  Housing  Association  as  soon  as  I'm  free. 

98 


THE  FLAT  99 

I'm  hopelessly  tied  up.  But  I  know  just  the  person 
for  you  —  Mr.  Yates.  I  picked  him  out  when  I  first 
joined  the  Child  Labor  Committee  as  an  able  fellow. 
He's  been  my  right-hand  man  ever  since.  I  don't 
like  to  lose  him,  but  I  can't  pay  him  more  than  two 
thousand  and  he's  worth  more.  You  couldn't  do 
better." 

Eunice,  dressed  in  her  street  clothes,  opened  the 
door  of  the  Flat  and  came  down  the  hall  past  Helen's 
little  office. 

"  Oh,  Eunice,"  Helen  called,  and  then  to  her  guest, 
"  excuse  me  a  minute,  I  have  a  message  for  my  room- 
mate, Miss  Bender." 

"  Is  it  Eunice  Bender,  the  artist?  Oh,  I'd  so  like 
to  know  her." 

"  Eunice,  let  me  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  van  Loo." 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  meet  you ! "  Mrs.  van  Loo  said  ef- 
fusively. "  You've  no  more  devoted  admirers  than 
my  children,  I'm  sure.  When  I  tell  them  I've  seen 
you,  they'll  be  wild  with  excitement.  And  do  you 
write  the  verses,  too?  They're  so  fine  for  children, 
they're  so  easily  learned.  My  three  know  dozens  of 
them  by  heart.  And  —  the  funny  things  —  they're 
always  asking  me  to  get  them  a  new  little  brother 
like  Little  Tot.  But  I  think  three  are  quite  enough 
for  a  busy  woman.  Don't  you?  Too  much  I  think 
sometimes." 

Mrs.  van  Loo's  talk  was  so  fast  that  it  gathered 
great  momentum  and  drove  past  commas  and  ques- 
tion«marks  and  periods  without  noticing  them. 

"  And  there's  no  one,  Miss  Bender,  who  does  more 
to  bring  joy  to  my  larger  brood  of  crippled  children. 


100  THE  STRANGER 

In  every  children's  hospital  in  the  city,  they  know 
Tit  and  Tot  and  all  of  them.  You'll  have  a  new  book 
for  this  Christmas,  won't  you?  And,  oh,  I  wonder  if 
you  could  make  a  Christmas  card  for  me?  Especially 
for  the  little  cripples  —  something  about  Tit,  Tat, 
Toe,  and  Little  Tot  coming  to  visit  them  in  the  hos- 
pital —  and  Santa  Claus?  I  could  have  them  printed 
and  sent  with  my  presents  to  the  poor  kiddies.  And 
if  you  could  only  go  the  rounds  with  me  some  day. 
You'd  be  surprised  to  find  how  they  all  know  your 
name.     It  would  make  them  so  happy.     Would  you?  " 

Eunice  was  very  tired  and  noticeably  pale.  This 
vehement  unparagraphed  discourse  winded  her.  But 
she  leaned  up  against  the  door  jamb  and  smiled 
valiantly. 

"  I'll  do  the  Christmas  card  for  you,  Mrs.  van  Loo. 
I'm  glad  the  youngsters  like  my  work.  But  I'm 
afraid  I  can't  visit  the  hospitals  with  you.  I'm  not 
any  too  strong  myself." 

"  No,"  Helen  said,  "  Eunice  isn't  up  to  that.  She 
has  to  be  very  careful." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  to  hear  it.  You  don't  look  very 
well  to-day.     I  hope  it's  not  serious  — " 

Mrs.  van  Loo  went  on  in  voluble  and  vacuous  sym- 
pathy. She  really  was  sorry,  but  it  did  not  sound  so. 
She  had  sympathized  with  sick  people  too  often  to 
do  it  convincingly.  Such  talk  was  always  painful  to 
Eunice,  so  she  interrupted. 

"  I've  been  fighting  with  my  publishers  this  after- 
noon and  I'm  very  tired  —  so  I'm  afraid  you'll  have 
to  excuse  me. —  Helen,  can  I  speak  to  you  just  a 
moment?  —  I'll  do  the  Christmas  card  for  you,  Mrs. 


THE.  FLAT  101 

van  Loo,  and  don't  forget  to  give  my  love- 1g;  the  chil- 
dren." 

"  No,  indeed.  They'll  be  so  pleased.  I'm  very  glad 
to  have  met  you.     I  do  hope  you'll  be  better  soon." 

Helen  walked  out  in  the  hallway  with  Eunice. 

"  I'm  all  in.  Tell  Jennie  to  bring  me  some  tea  and 
toast  for  supper  —  in  bed." 

"  Oh,  Eunice,  do  you  have  to  go  to  bed?  That  Mr. 
Lane  is  coming  in  to  talk  about  costumes  for  Thanks- 
giving. Lillian  telephoned  that  she  would  bring  him 
over  about  nine." 

Eunice  considered  this  a  moment. 

"  Well,  I'll  lie  down  till  dinner  time  anyhow." 

"  To  get  back  to  business,  Mrs.  van  Loo,"  Helen 
said,  as  she  rejoined  her  guest.  "  I  can  very  cor- 
dially recommend  this  Mr.  Yates.  You  see,  I've  prac- 
tically brought " 

"Does  Miss  Bender  ever  do  portraits  of  children? 
I'd  like  to  have  her  paint  mine.     They'd  love  it." 

"  I  never  knew  her  to  do  portraits,  but  I'll  ask  her. 
As  I  was  saying,  I've  practically  brought  up  Mr. 
Yates.  I've  trained  him.  I  know  the  people  avail- 
able for  such  work  and  you  can't  do  better.  Twenty- 
five  hundred  would  be  a  fair  salary  to  start  him  on." 

For  a  few  minutes  they  haggled  over  terms. 

"  Brains  cost  money  in  charity,  just  as  they  do  in 
business,"  Helen  said,  "  but  they  more  than  pay  for 
themselves.     He'll  double  your  income." 

And  so,  at  last,  it  was  arranged. 

As  soon  as  the  door  had  closed  on  Mrs.  van  Loo, 
Helen  went  to  Eunice's  room. 

"  I'm  tired,  too,"  she  said,  tumbling  onto  the  foot 


102  THE  STRANGER 

of  the  bed.  "  My !  That  van  Loo  woman  is  a  scatter- 
brain.  Can't  keep  her  mind  on  one  subject  ten 
seconds.  By  the  way,  she  wants  to  know  if  you'd 
paint  her  children." 

"  Not  if  they're  as  noisy  as  she  is !  " 

Eunice  was  stretched  out  on  her  bed.  She  put  her 
hands  over  her  eyes.  Plainly  she  did  not  want  to 
talk.  The  sight  of  physical  suffering  always  dis- 
tressed Helen,  she  would  have  much  preferred  to  slip 
away.  But  she  was  convinced  that  solitary  medita- 
tion on  her  ills  —  what  Dr.  Riggs  called  "  moping  " — 
was  the  very  worst  thing  for  Eunice.  And  persist- 
ence, insistence,  had  been  the  formula  of  Helen's  suc- 
cess as  a  social-service  financier. 

"  What  were  you  fighting  with  your  publishers 
about?  "  she  asked. 

Eunice,  having  learned  from  long  experience  that 
it  was  easier  to  submit  to  Helen's  determinations, 
pulled  herself  together  to  reply.  They  talked  abou.t 
contracts  and  royalties,  about  Mr.  Yates  and  Mrs.  van 
Loo  till  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner. 

When,  later  in  the  evening,  the  doorbell  announced 
the  arrival  of  Lillian  and  Mr.  Lane,  Eunice,  in  a  soft 
clinging  gown  of  blue  and  not  looking  tired  any  more, 
was  reading.  Helen  presented  a  striking  contrast. 
She  wore  a  smart,  crisp  evening  dress,  which  looked 
starched  but  was  not.  A  picture  of  spruceness  and 
health,  she  was  sitting  at  the  center  table  working 
on  a  folio  of  business  papers.  She  gathered  them  into 
an  orderly  pile,  but  left  them  in  plain  sight  as  she 
turned  to  welcome  the  guests. 

"  Oh,  girls!  "  Lillian  burst  out.     "  Mr.  Lane  is  per- 


THE  FLAT  103 

f  ectly  wonderful !  He  can  get  all  the  costumes  from 
1  The  Caliph's  Daughter.'  It  has  just  finished  its 
run." 

"  Are  you  connected  with  the  theater,  Mr.  Lane?  " 
Helen  asked. 

Her  question  was  so  brusque  that  he  started  and 
stammered.  It  would  be  hard  to  imagine  a  person 
who  had  less  of  the  assured  Broadway  look. 

"  Oh,  no !  But  there  were  some  Moors  — \  supers  ' 
in  the  play  —  from  the  Anghera  Hills.  I  did  some 
interpreting  for  them.  There  was  no  one  at  the 
French  consulate  who  knew  their  dialect.  They  were 
quite  bewildered  —  caused  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to 
the  management  —  till  they  found  some  one  to  speak 
for  them." 

"  That's  the  best  part  of  it,"  Lillian  said,  with  grow- 
ing enthusiasm.  "  He  knows  those  people.  The 
musicians  and  acrobats.  He  says  some  of  them  can 
cook  —  give  us  a  real  Persian  supper." 

"  Moroccan,"  Lane  protested. 

"And  the  property  man,"  Lillian  ignored  the  cor- 
rection, "  is  going  to  lend  us  the  tent  from  the  third 
act  —  it  will  fill  about  half  of  the  Studio.  And  Mr. 
Lane's  Armenian  friend  has  rugs  and  cushions  and 
everything.  But  the  costumes  are  the  best !  You  re- 
member that  wonderful  creamy  and  scarlet  gown  with 
the  umbrella  skirt?  The  Caliph's  daughter  wears  it 
in  the  second  act.     He's  going  to  get  that  for  me !  " 

She  did  not  wait  for  the  applause  this  drew  to  die 
down. 

"  And  that  black  and  gold  thing  the  favorite  wife 
wears  in  the  finale  —  you'd  look  stunning  in  that, 


104  THE  STRANGER 

Helen !  It  would  just  about  fit.  And  for  Eunice  — 
I  can't  quite  make  up  my  mind.  Frank  says  the  old 
gold  dress  —  the  one  the  girl  who  recites  the  prologue 
wore  —  would  suit  you  best.  But  I  can  never  see 
why  you  wear  old  gold.  I  should  think  with  your  hair 
you'd  choose  more  of  a  contrast.  But  it  don't  matter. 
You  can  have  whatever  you  want.  There  are  heaps  of 
costumes  for  you  and  Irene  to  pick  from.  Isn't  it 
gorgeous?" 

Lane  was  pleased  that  they  were  pleased.  He  tried 
to  enter  intelligently  into  these  discussions  of  dresses, 
but  was  plainly  in  deep  water.  However  he  was 
quite  definite  in  siding  with  Frank  about  Eunice's 
costume.  He  was  sure  that  the  gown  of  old  gold 
would  be  becoming. 

"  And  if  you  want  the  feast  to  be  really  Oriental," 
he  said,  "we  must  have  a  story-teller.  There  is  a 
very  good  one  with  this  troupe.  He  can't  speak 
English,  but  I  could  interpret." 

"Won't  all  this  cost  a  good  deal,  Mr.  Lane?" 
Eunice  asked.  "  You  must  promise  to  let  us  all  share 
the  expense  equally." 

"  It  will  cost  very  little.  I  could  not  pay  the  Moors, 
if  I  tried.  They  are  all  foolishly  grateful.  I  only 
went  up  to  the  theater  now  and  then  to  smooth  out 
their  difficulties.  It  was  not  much,  and  I  found  it 
interesting.  But  they  think  it  was  a  great  deal. 
They  will  be  glad  to  do  it  for  me." 

"Well,  if  that's  so,"  Helen  said,  "let's  have  the 
dancing  girls,  too.     They're  so  typical." 

"  I  am  afraid  we  had  better  not  ask  them,"  Lane 
said. 


THE  FLAT  105 

He  blushed  slightly,  in  evident  confusion  at  her  sug- 
gestion.    Helen  did  not  like  opposition. 

"  I  don't  see  why  not." 

"  Really,"  Lane  stammered  in  embarrassment,  "  I 
—  well  —  you  see,  the  men,  the  musicians,  they  would 
think  —  well  —  in  their  country  such  girls  only  dance 
before  men  —  not  before  ladies." 

"  But  here,"  Helen  persisted,  "  they  do  it  every 
night." 

"  It  does  not  matter  what  they  think  of  the  women 
in  the  audiences.  But  I  would  not  like  to  have  them 
think  ill  of  the  ladies  I  know  —  as  they  do  of  the 
women  who  come  to  public  places  to  see  vulgar 
dances." 

"  What  rubbish !  "  Helen  snorted.  "  I  suppose  they 
think  we're  abandoned  hussies  because  we  don't  wear 
veils  " 

"  Oh,  no !  "  he  said,  quite  seriously.  "  They  think 
it  is  a  strange  custom  not  to  wear  veils.  They  think 
your  men  cannot  care  much  for  you  —  to  let  you  be 
seen  so  by  all  the  world.  But  they  are  wise  enough 
to  know  that  there  must  be  many  chaste  women  in 
any  country  —  even  among  the  naked  black  folk  of 
Africa." 

This  rather  overwhelmed  Helen.  It  almost 
silenced  her,  but  she  could  not  forego  a  last  word. 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  have  to  worry  about  their  silly 
prejudices,"  she  said. 

"  I'll  arrange  it,  if  I  can,"  Lane  said,  bowing  sub- 
missively. 

Further  discussion  of  this  point  was  averted  by  the 
arrival  of  Lancaster. 


106  THE  STRANGER 

"Seeing  you  saves  writing  a  note,"  Lillian  said 
as  the  greeting  subsided.  "  We're  going  to  have  a 
Persian  dinner  on  Thanksgiving  night.  And  we're 
counting  on  you  and  Irene.  Mr.  Lane  is  arranging 
the  costumes  for  us." 

"  All  right,"  Lancaster  said,  rather  ruefully  at  the 
idea  of  such  frivolity.  "  I  suppose  Irene  will  want 
to  come." 

And  then,  having  had  his  own  reason  for  coming 
to  the  Flat,  he  went  directly  to  it. 

"  I've  just  been  around  to  your  rooms,  Mr.  Lane. 
As  you  weren't  there,  I  looked  in  on  Mathews,  found 
Frank  there.  He  said  you  were  here.  I've  wanted 
to  get  acquainted,  ever  since  Inslavsky  ran  off  with 
you  last  Sunday.  I'm  very  much  interested  in  the 
Revolution  in  Russia.  I  heard  him  call  you  '  Tovar- 
ish ' —  and  that  means  i  comrade.'  Tell  us  about  it. 
How  did  you  meet  Inslavsky?  " 

Lane  evidently  was  reluctant  to  answer.  He 
glanced  about  from  one  to  another  as  if  looking  for 
help. 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  ask  Inslavsky.  I  do  not 
know  —  I  am  not  sure  that  he  would  want  me  to  tell. 
I  was  only  in  Russia  a  short  time.  I  do  not  know 
much  about  the  Revolution.  Inslavsky  could  tell  you 
so  much  more  than  I." 

He  was  more  embarrassed  than  ever  by  the  awk- 
ward silence.  Eunice  came  to  his  rescue  with  some 
small  talk  about  costumes.  They  discussed  plans  for 
Thanksgiving  until  Lillian  left  with  Mr.  Lane. 

"  He's  a  queer  person,"  Lancaster  said  to  the  two 
girls.     "  He  can't  be  much  interested  in  the  Revolu- 


THE  FLAT  107 

tion  —  or  he'd  be  in  touch  with  the  comrades  here 
and  know  that  he  didn't  have  to  distrust  us. 

"  I  heard  a  great  yarn  about  him  yesterday.  I  was 
up  at  Cambridge  arranging  for  Inslavsky's  speech  to 
the  students.  I  had  lunch  with  Petroff,  he's  to  preside 
at  our  meeting  and  he's  head  of  the  Department  of 
Semitic  Languages.  He  knows  Lane  —  discovered 
him  in  fact.     It's  a  weird  story. 

"  Last  year  Petroff  went  to  Morocco  on  the  trail  of 
some  Arabic   manuscripts.     When   the   Moors   were 
driven  out  of  Spain  they  took  their  books  with  them 
And  up  at  Morocco  City,  the  old  capital,  Petroff  sue 
ceeded  in  getting  admission  to  the  library  of  the  uni 
versity  —  it  was  a  famous  school  in  the  old  days 
And  there  he  found  a  native  scholar,  named  Kassim 
who  knew  all  about  the  manuscripts.    After  talking 
Arabic  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  this  '  native  scholar 
began  to  speak  English  and  turned  out  to  be  Lane 
Petroff  says  he  was  born  out  there  —  the  son  of  a  mis 
sionary.     He  dressed  and  lived  like  the  natives  — 
passed  himself  off  as  a  Mohammedan.     But  as  soon 
as  he  found  out  that  Petroff  was  really  in  earnest, 
really  knew  his  subject,  he  became  quite  friendly. 

"  Petroff  says  he  knows  more  about  Arabic  and 
kindred  languages  than  any  white  man  alive.  He 
tried  at  once  to  get  him  to  come  to  America.  It  seems 
that  Lane  did  not  want  to  come  at  first.  Petroff  used 
some  queer  bait  to  land  him.  There's  a  language 
called  '  Shilah,'  which  the  mountaineers  speak  in  the 
Hi^li  Atlas.  It's  an  unwritten  language,  so  it's  hard 
to  study  and  nobody  knows  much  about  it.  But  Lane 
knew  it  well.     It  seems  that  a  German  faker  had  made 


108  THE  STRANGER 

a  great  stir  among  Orientalists  by  publishing  a  Shilah 
grammar.  It  was  all  wrong  —  a  bluff.  It  made 
Lane  so  angry,  when  Petroff  showed  it  to  him,  that 
he  came  to  America  —  on  the  Harvard  Oriental  Fund 
—  to  publish  a  true  grammar.  Petroff  says  it's  the 
most  important  contribution  to  comparative  philology 
that's  been  made  in  decades  —  clears  up  a  number  of 
obscure  points  about  the  relations  between  Phoenician, 
Hebrew,  Arabic,  and  other  Semitic  languages. 

"  When  Lane  finished  the  grammar  he  came  here  to 
New  York  to  work  for  the  Oriental  Society.  He's 
getting  out  an  anthology  of  Shilah  folklore  and 
poetry.  Petroff  is  enthusiastic  about  him  —  says  that 
at  last  America  has  an  Orientalist  to  be  proud  of. 
And  it's  strange  —  he  never  told  Petroff  that  he'd  been 
in  Russia. 

"  It  makes  me  sore  to  think  that  he's  been  living 
here,  within  easy  reach,  and  I  didn't  know  him.  I 
could  get  so  much  from  him  for  my  book  on  i  Coopera- 
tion among  Primitive  Peoples.'  A  man  can't  know 
so  much  about  languages  without  knowing  a  good  deal 
about  ethnology.     I — " 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  go  to  bed,"  Eunice  in- 
terrupted ;  "  I'm  awfully  tired." 

As  she  got  up  from  the  couch,  she  staggered  slightly 
and  went  pale.     Lancaster  jumped  up  to  steady  her. 

"  It's  nothing,"  she  said,  "  a  little  vertigo.  I'm  all 
right  —  only  tired."  And  shaking  off  his  hand,  she 
walked  with  fair  steadiness  to  the  door.  "Good 
night." 

"Is  she  worse?"  Lancaster  asked. 

Helen  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  perplexity. 


THE  FLAT  109 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  afraid  so.  You'd  best  run 
along,  so  I  can  help  her  to  bed." 

And  when  she  had  let  Lancaster  out,  she  went 
quickly  to  Eunice's  room. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  oughtn't  to  have  stayed  up,"  she 
said. 

"  Oh,  Helen,  dear.  Please !  Don't  you  suppose  I 
know  I  oughtn't  to  have  stayed  up?  Don't  rub  it 
in!" 

And  Helen  knew,  from  the  petulance  of  Eunice's 
voice,  that  she  was  unusually  tired. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THANKSGIVING 

One  end  of  the  Studio  was  hung  with  an  imita- 
tion camel's  hair  tent.  There  were  divans  on  three 
sides  and  a  wealth  of  stage-property  cushions 
sprinkled  here  and  there  with  real  ones  from  the 
Armenian's  curio  shop.  There  was  an  arabesque 
cloth  hung  like  a  wainscoting  about  the  angle  of 
honor.  And  on  the  floor  was  a  wonderful  Atli  rug 
of  soft  blues  and  old  rose  tints,  which  Lane  had 
brought  from  his  rooms.  A  canvas  drop  curtain, 
painted  after  the  Bokhara  design,  but  much  larger 
than  any  real  Bokhara  rug,  hung  across  the  room  be- 
fore the  open  end  of  the  tent  and  shut  off  the  bare  half 
of  the  Studio. 

Beyond  this  curtain,  a  group  of  Moors  squatted  on 
the  floor  about  some  earthenware  stoves,  where,  over 
glowing  charcoals,  some  strangely  smelling  foods  were 
cooking.  Lillian,  who,  in  spite  of  the  sumptuous  cos- 
tume of  the  Caliph's  Daughter,  looked  anything  but 
Oriental,  was  watching  them. 

"  Is  everything  ready?  "  she  asked  a  Moorish  taleb 
in  flowing  white,  who,  in  spite  of  his  ready  English, 
did  not  at  all  resemble  the  Lane  of  American  clothes. 

"  Just  a  minute,"  he  replied.  He  gave  some  final 
directions  in  the  guttural  dialect  of  the  Anghera  Hills. 

"All  right,"  he  said.     "We  will  bring  them  in." 

no 


THANKSGIVING  111 

He  pulled  aside  the  imitation  rug  and  they  passed 
into  the  space  before  the  tent. 

"  Oh !     It's  beautiful,"  Lillian  said  gleefully. 

"  I  supose  it  is  the  best  we  can  do  here.  But  those 
Japanese  lanterns  with  the  electric  lights " 

"  Candles,"  she  interrupted  with  finality,  "  would 
be  too  dangerous." 

She  opened  the  door  into  the  parlor. 

The  merriment  which  had  sounded  through  stopped 
suddenly.  Lane  bent  low  as  the  guests  entered,  wel- 
coming them  with  the  Arabic  greeting — "Salaam 
aleikum  " — "  peace  be  upon  you." 

«  oh !  "— "  Ah !  "— "  Fine !  " 

"  Where's  Mr.  Lane?  "  Helen  asked. 

"  That's  him  —  he  bowed  you  in,"  Lillian  laughed. 

They  all  turned  and  looked  at  Lane,  who,  in  real 
Moorish  clothes,  did  not  begin  to  come  up  to  their  idea 
of  Oriental  gorgeousness.  Among  their  stage  cos- 
tumes he  looked  rather  like  a  field  daisy  mixed  up  in  a 
chrysanthemum  show. 

"  Let  us  sit  down,"  he  said,  awkward  as  usual,  when 
he  felt  himself  the  center  of  attention. 

Win,  remembering  how  the  Caliph  did  it  in  the 
theater,  shook  off  his  slippers  as  he  stepped  on  the 
fine  old  Atli  rug.  Lane  did  so  as  second  nature.  The 
others,  noticing  them,  followed  suit,  with  much  mer- 
riment. 

"  I  suppose  we  ought  to  sit  down  cross-legged," 
Helen  said. 

"  Oh,  be  comfortable,"  Lane  urged.  "  That  is  why 
we  have  so  many  cushions." 

A  grinning  little  black  boy  about  ten  years  old, 


112  THE  STRANGER 

with  a  red  fez  cocked  rakishly  on  one  side  of  his  shaven 
head,  came  in  from  behind  the  curtain  with  an 
elaborately  chased  brass  bowl  for  hand-washing. 
Lane  called  it  a  "  tass"  He  washed  first  to  show 
them  how,  and  then,  one  after  another,  they  held  out 
their  hands  and  little  black  Ahmed  poured  on  them 
the  warm,  rose-scented  water. 

He  removed  the  tass  and  returned  with  a  low, 
round  table  laden  with  tea  things  and  set  it  down 
before  Lockwood. 

"  What  do  I  do  with  this?  "  he  asked. 

"Oh!  The  host  always  makes  the  tea  —  it  is  the 
strictest  etiquette.  You  see  the  traditional  way  to 
get  rid  of  your  enemies  is  to  poison  their  tea.  If  the 
host  seemed  anxious  to  make  it,  the  guests  would  be 
afraid.  So  you  must  urge  each  of  us  to  make  it  — 
to  reassure  us.  But  it  would  be  very  rude  for  any  of 
us  to  accept  the  task  —  it  would  show  that  we  did 
not  trust  you.  So  in  the  end  the  host  always  makes 
it." 

"  But  I  don't  know  how,"  Frank  said.  "  We'll  have 
to  trust  you." 

"  Not  a  very  cheerful  custom,"  Irene  said,  "  begin- 
ning a  meal  with  the  fear  you  may  be  poisoned." 
Long  association  with  children  in  the  capacity  of 
teacher  had  given  her  an  assertive,  positive  manner  of 
speech.  "  I  wouldn't  like  the  East.  I  suppose  there's 
a  frightful  lot  of  dirt.  Fancy!  Eating  with  one's 
hands!" 

"  Yes,"  Lane  admitted.  "  There  is  a  greal  deal  of 
dirt  —  not  the  kind  you  are  used  to  here." 

"  That's  one  on  you,  Irene,"  Lancaster  laughed. 


THANKSGIVING  113 

"  When  we  think  of  New  York  City  and  all  the  filth 
of  the  slums  —  where  the  great  mass  of  our  people  live 
—  we  haven't  any  right  to  throw  stones.  We've  an 
East  of  our  own  —  the  East  Side." 

Lane  was  afraid  it  would  hurt  Miss  Penton's  feel- 
ings to  be  laughed  at. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  make  a  joke,"  he  said.  "  But 
I  do  not  think  it  any  dirtier  to  eat  with  your  fingers, 
which  you  have  just  washed,  than  with  a  fork,  which 
a  careless  servant  has  washed  —  perhaps.  And  go- 
ing into  a  house  with  your  shoes  on  —  after  walking 
in  the  street.  You  are  accustomed  to  that  and  it  does 
not  seem  dirty  to  you  —  but  of  course  it  is.  It  shocks 
us." 

Little  Ahmed,  coming  in  to  remove  the  tea  outfit, 
addressed  Lane  in  Arabic.     Win  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"What  did  he  call  you?" 

"  Hadji  Kassim  —  that's  my  Moorish  name." 

"  But  <  Hadji '  is  a  religious  title,  isn't  it?  "  Win 
asked.  "  I  thought  it  meant  a  person  who  had  been 
on  the  pilgrimage.     Have  you  been  to  Mecca?  " 

*  Yes." 

"  Have  you,  indeed? "  Lancaster  exclaimed.  "  I 
want  to  hear  about  that  some  time.  I've  read  Sir 
Richard  Burton's  account  of  his  trip  to  Mecca.  But 
aren't  these  people  angry  about  it?  I  thought  they 
were  very  bitter  against  any  outsider  going  to  their 
holy  cities." 

"But  I'm  not  an  outsider.  I'm  a  believer  —  a 
Mohammedan." 

"  You  don't  wear  a  fez,"  Lancaster  said. 

Lane  was  embarrassed,  not  by  the  cross-questioning, 


114  THE  STRANGER 

but  by  having  to  talk  of  himself.  He  tried  to  turn 
the  conversation  lightly. 

"  I  don't  believe  God  cares  what  fashion  of  hats  we 
wear." 

"  This  interests  me/'  Lancaster  persisted.  "  I 
thought  the  Muslims  were  very  fanatical  about  such 
things." 

"Some  of  them  are  —  just  like  some  Christians. 
Not  very  many  years  ago  they  burned  people  at  the 
stake  in  Russia  over  the  question  of  whether  the  priest 
should  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  with  three  fingers 
or  with  the  thumb  and  two  fingers.  There  are  foolish 
fanatics  everywhere.  But  I  am  quite  sure  that  God 
is  not  a  foolish  fanatic.  Do  you  not  agree  with 
me?" 

"  Now,  for  an  argument,"  Win  said  dolefully. 
"  Lancaster  doesn't  believe  in  any  God." 

Ahmed  caused  an  ineffectual  diversion  by  bringing 
in  a  steaming  dish  of  hous-hous-soo.  There  was  a 
pyramid  of  white  meal,  its  sides  inlaid  with  a  formal 
design  of  carrots  and  beets,  with  a  stewed  chicken 
atop. 

"  Defend  your  lack  of  faith,  Lancaster,"  Win  said 
teasingly. 

Lancaster  did  not  want  to  alienate  Lane  by  making 
fun  of  his  beliefs,  but  he  could  not  resist  Win's  chal- 
lenge. 

"  You  really  believe  in  God?  " 

"  Yes,"  Lane  said  quite  simply.  "  In  my  God  — 
Allah.  Not  in  the  God  of  the  Jews,  who  sits  on  a 
throne  —  a  man-god  with  '  a  right  hand,'  who  got 
vexed   at  his   creatures   and   cried   over  their   sins, 


THANKSGIVING  115 

drowned  them  in  a  flood  of  his  tears  —  cried,  as  the 
Jewish  books  say,  till  his  eyes  were  sore.  Not  in  the 
Christian  God  —  who  had  a  son." 

"  You  won't  find  many  people  nowadays,"  Win  said, 
"  who  believe  in  the  anthropomorphic  —  man-god  — 
with  hands  and  feet  and  sore  eyes." 

"  I  don't  believe  in  any  kind  of  a  God,"  Lancaster 
said,  "  with  or  without  sore  eyes." 

"  Nor  I,"  Helen  put  in. 

"Are  you  not  sorry  sometimes?  "  Lane  asked.  "  I 
would  be.  I  do  not  suppose  any  one  can  believe  in 
God  all  the  time.  We  have  to  stop  to  sleep  and  eat 
and  do  so  many  little  things.  But  it  is  very  good  to 
believe  in  God  when  you  can  spare  the  time." 

"  Well,"  Eunice  said,  to  steer  out  of  the  argument, 
"let's  stop  philosophizing  and  eat  a  little.  Do  you 
eat  this,  too,  with  your  hands?  " 

"  Yes.  And  kous-kous-soo  has  its  etiquette,  too. 
No  matter  how  clever  your  disguise,  nor  how  well 
you  spoke  his  language,  you  could  not  fool  a  Moor, 
unless  you  know  how  to  eat  kous-kous-soo.  First,  the 
host  pulls  off  a  piece  of  meat  like  this  and  offers  it 
to  the  most  honored  guest,  who  sits  at  his  right.  I 
will  offer  it  to  you,  Miss  Bender  —  as  you  are  at  my 
right  —  so.  And  the  host  says  — '  Bis-m-illah ' — '  In 
the  Name  of  God ' —  a  blessing.  And  you  must  say  — 
'  El-hamdu-l-illah ' — '  Praise  be  to  God  ' — a  thanks- 
giving. And  you  must  take  it  with  your  right  hand  — 
the  left  hand  is  an  insult.  Then  every  one  takes  a 
handful  of  meal  —  like  this.  You  can  make  a  ball  of 
it  —  see.  Try  it, —  no.  It  is  difficult.  It  takes 
much  practice.    We  will  have  spoons.    Ahmed! " 


116  THE  STRANGER 

"  It  certainly  tastes  good,"  Win  said. 

"  What  do  the  poor  people  eat  in  Morocco?  "  Lan- 
caster asked. 

"  Oh,  everybody  eats  kous-kous-soo.  The  rich 
Ka'ids,  of  course,  will  have  chicken  with  it  —  or  a 
piece  of  meat.  The  common  people  have  to  be  con- 
tent with  partridges  or  quails." 

"  What  a  topsy-turvy  land,"  Eunice  laughed. 
"You  have  to  be  very  rich  here  to  have  game 
birds." 

"  With  us,  the  boys  catch  them  in  snares.  They 
don't  cost  anything." 

While  they  were  eating  the  kous-kous-soo,  an  or- 
chestra of  four  pieces  appeared.  One  had  a  small,  tall 
drum,  which  he  beat  with  his  hands.  There  was 
a  reed  flute  and  a  "  ginbri,"  a  minute  sort  of  mandolin. 
The  fourth  musician  had  a  "  r^hab/'  the  instrument 
on  which  Win  had  heard  Lane  play.  The  four  men, 
after  bowing  to  the  company,  stood  up,  held  out  their 
hands  as  if  holding  the  Holy  Book,  and  recited  a  verse 
from  the  Koran. 

*  What's  that?  "  Eunice  asked. 

"  The  Fatihah  —  like  your  Lord's  Prayer.  Only 
it  is  all  thanksgiving  —  not  begging  bread.  I  will 
translate  it. 

"Praise  be  to  God,  the  Lord  of  all  creatures, 
The  most  Compassionate  of  the  Merciful, 
King  of  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
Thee  do  we  worship  and  of  Thee  do  we  ask  guidance. 
Lead  us  in  the  True  Path, 
In  the  way  of  those  on  whom  is  Thy  Grace, 
Not  in  the  Path  of  the  unrighteous 
Nor  in  that  of  those  who  have  gone  astray." 


THANKSGIVING  11? 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  it  is  a  prayer  of  praise  — 
and  this  is  your  Thanksgiving  Day.  Now  they  will 
sing  a  '  keemjad ' —  an  address  of  welcome." 

While  they  were  singing,  Ahmed  brought  in  a  cas- 
serole — lamb,  stewed  in  oil,  with  seeded  grapes  and 
olives.  He  was  very  awkward  in  handing  about  the 
knives  and  forks.  He  did  not  know  how,  and  Irene, 
who  was  squeamish  in  such  matters,  noticed  with 
horror  that  as  often  as  not  he  picked  up  a  knife  by 
the  blade  —  in  his  black  fingers.  She  decided  that 
after  all  there  was  something  to  be  said  on  behalf  of 
eating  with  one's  own  hands. 

Frank  dished  out  a  plateful  and  handed  it  to  Helen. 

"What  is  it  I  should  say?"  he  asked. 

«  Bis-m-illah." 

"And  I?  "Helen  asked. 

"  El-hamu-l-illah" 

"  What  do  you  call  this  dish?  "  Irene  asked. 

"  Tajeen." 

"  I  must  say,"  she  said,  "  I  like  their  cooking  better 
than  their  music.  This  tajeen  is  as  delicious  as  the 
noise  is  discordant." 

"  It  is  not  really  discordant,"  Lane  protested, 
"  only  your  ear  is  not  used  to  such  fine  shades.  You 
have  made  all  your  music  rigid  to  fit  your  piano  — 
the  octave  —  everything  just  alike.  You  could  not 
play  that  on  your  piano.  There  are  twelve  intervals 
equal  to  your  eight." 

"  I  don't  catch  so  many." 

"No?" 

He  took  the  r'bab  from  the  player  and  asked  Irene 
to  give  him  the  scale. 


118  THE  STRANGER 

"  Good !  "  he  said,  as  she  sang  the  do,  re,  mi.  He 
struck  the  high  and  low  c.     "  Now,  listen." 

He  ran  up  the  duodecimal  scale.  Handing  the  in- 
strument back  he  spoke  a  few  words  of  Arabic  to  the 
performers. 

"  They  will  sing  the  Hamadsha  funeral  chant.  It 
isn't  meant  for  instruments.  You  can  get  so  mnch 
more  delicate  tonic  value  out  of  strings  than  you  can 
from  the  voice.  It  is  a  chant.  The  marching  nong 
of  those  who  carry  the  coffin.  It  is  in  one  of  the 
Gregorian  modes.     Your  ears  will  catch  the  tones." 

The  voices  of  the  musicians  did  not  have  the  timbre 
to  which  we  are  accustomed,  and  the  rhythm, 
especially  the  weird  insistence  of  the  drum,  was  un- 
usual, but  the  melody  was  octaval  and  enough  like  our 
own  to  allow  its  peculiar  beauty  to  be  felt  by  Western 
ears.  "  Why,"  Win  said,  "  there's  a  movement  to  that 
which  sounds  like  Handel." 

"  Yes,"  Irene  admitted,  "  that's  better.     Much !  " 

"  It  sounds  like  a  song  of  victory,"  Eunice  said. 

"  Well,  with  us,  we  look  on  death  as  a  sort  of 
victory." 

Ahmed,  who  had  taken  away  the  tajeen,  came  back 
with  the  tass,  and  when  they  had  washed  their  hands 
again,  he  brought  in  a  tablecloth,  held  up  by  the 
four  corners  like  a  bag,  and  threw  it  open  on  the  rug. 
There  was  an  amazing  potpourri  of  white  cookies, 
oranges,  nuts,  bananas,  cranberries,  tuberoses,  and 
carnations. 

Ahmed  came  again  with  a  censer  of  frankincense, 
which  he  swung  about  till  the  tent  was  heavy  with  the 
pungent  and  exquisite  scent.     Then  with  a  bundle  of 


THANKSGIVING  119 

fragrant  grasses  he  sprinkled  them  with  rose  water 
from  a  silver  bowl. 

The  orchestra  struck  up  a  "  Streets  of  Cairo  "  tune 
and  a  slim  and  graceful  dancer,  barefooted,  in  gaudy, 
electric  blue  silk  trousers,  a  red  sash  and  burnt  orange 
bodice,  hung  with  heavy,  clanking  silver  jewelry  — 
anklets,  bracelets,  ponderous  earrings  —  clattered 
into  the  space  before  the  tent  and  began  the  danse  du 
ventre.  Whether  the  dancer's  face  was  pretty  or  not, 
it  was  quite  impossible  to  tell.  It  was  overlaid, 
almost  masked,  with  paint,  scarlet  lips,  a  spot  of 
carmine  on  each  cheek,  the  eyebrows  heavily  exag- 
gerated with  antimony. 

Helen  from  the  other  side  of  the  tent  nodded  a 
"  thank  you  "  to  Lane. 

"I  thought  you  weren't  going  to  bring  a  girl," 
Eunice  whispered. 

"  Do  not  tell,"  he  replied,  winking  slyly.  "  It  is 
a  boy.  I  had  a  hard  time  persuading  him  to  dress  up 
like  a  girl  and  dance  before  women.  Do  not  tell  Miss 
Cash.  .  She  would  be  disappointed." 

When  the  dance  was  finished,  Ahmed  brought  in 
■  wide  brass  tray,  covered  with  tiny  cups  of  coffee 
and  cigarettes.  An  old,  white-bearded,  venerable, 
wizened  .Moor  in  an  immense  turban  came  in  and 
bowed  profoundly.  Lane  rose  to  return  his  saluta- 
tion respectfully  and  offered  him  a  cigarette,  which 
he  lighted  for  him. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  allow  me  to 
present  Sidi  Bobker  bin  Abd-el-Khader  Azroor.  He 
is  a  professional  troubadour  and  story-teller.  No 
Moorish  banquet  would  be  complete  without  some 


120  THE  STRANGER 

stories,  so  I  have  invited  Sidi  Bobker.  Of  course  the 
best  of  his  stories  are  too  long  for  me  to  translate 
without  tiring  you.     I  have  asked  him  for  short  ones. 

"  And,  with  your  permission,  I  will  ask  the  other 
Moors,  who  have  been  serving  us,  to  come  and  listen. 
It  is  the  custom  —  and  they  enjoy  it  very  much." 

Little  black  Ahmed,  who  was  Sidi  Booker's  slave, 
produced  an  immense  tambourine,  nearly  three  feet 
across,  and,  squatting  down  on  his  heels,  beat  a  most 
intricate  tattoo.  The  other  Moors  —  including  the 
lad,  who  had  danced  and  who  had  quickly  washed  the 
shame  from  his  face  and  had  put  on  again  the  garb  of 
manhood  —  sat  about  in  a  semicircle.  Lane  threw 
them  handfuls  of  the  mixed  dessert  and  cigarettes. 

When  all  were  in  place,  Ahmed  stopped  his  racket. 
Sidi  Bobker  stood  up,  spread  out  his  hands  in  the  at- 
titude of  prayer,  recited  the  Fatihah,  and  invoked  the 
blessing  of  his  patron  saint,  Sidi  L'mdoog. 

The  Moors  roared  with  laughter  as  the  old  man  told 
his  tale.  A  queer  glint  came  into  Lane's  eyes.  It  was 
a  mixture  of  embarrassment  and  of  amusement.  Sidi 
Bobker  had  no  sooner  started,  than  Lane  had  realized 
that  he  could  not  translate  this  story.  He  knew 
enough  of  American  life  to  understand  that  such  droll 
tales  could  not  be  told  to  ladies  —  except  in  intimate 
privacy.  Although  thinking  hard  to  escape  the  em- 
barrassment of  the  situation,  he  was  mightily  amused 
at  the  contrast  in  conventionalities.  Sidi  Bobker, 
who  disapproved  of  unveiled  women  to  such  an  extent 
that  he  would  not  look  at  their  faces,  was  blissfully 
unconscious  of  any  indelicacy  in  describing  their  more 
intimate  charms. 


THANKSGIVING  121 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Lane  said,  when  the  story  was  fin- 
ished. "  It  is  impossible  to  translate.  All  the  wit  of 
it  is  in  play  upon  words.  Although  you  do  not  like 
puns,  my  people  are  very  fond  of  them.  Anyhow 
puns  lose  their  point  when  translated!  But  please 
laugh  a  little  so  the  old  man's  feelings  will  not  be 
hurt.  He  would  think  me  very  stupid,  if  he  knew  I 
could  not  translate." 

Luckily  a  slow-witted  Moor  suddenly  caught  the 
point  of  one  of  Sidi  Bobker's  jests  and  exploded  in  a 
roar  of  laughter  which  was  infectious. 

"  I  will  ask  him  for  another  story,"  Lane  said. 
"  We  will  hope  for  better  luck  this  time." 

Sidi  Bobker  bowed  in  acknowledgment  of  the  com- 
pliment implied  in  the  request  for  another  effort. 
Little  Ahmed  made  the  tambourine  roar  for  a  mo- 
ment and  the  old  man  began  again. 

"Ay!  Ay!  El-hamdu-l-illah! "  the  Moors  ejacu- 
lated in  solemn  approval. 

"  This  is  not  a  funny  story,"  Lane  said,  as  he  began 
his  translation.     "  It  is  —  well  —  religious. 

"  In  the  land  of  Makainfa'in,  which  means  in  the 
land  of  nowhere  —  like  your  '  Once  upon  a  time  '  — 
there  lived  a  poet,  Khamedo,  and  he  loved  a  maiden 
named,  after  the  Prophets  wife,  Khadijah  —  on  her 
be  the  peace  and  favor  of  Allah. 

"  One  evening  the  young  man,  Khamedo,  went  to 
the  house  where  Khadijah  dwelt  alone.  He  knocked 
on  the  door.     The  voice  of  his  beloved  answered: 

"'Who  is  there?' 

"  '  It  is  V 

" i  There  is  no  room  within  but  for  one.' 


122  THE  STRANGER 

"  Khamedo  went  apart  into  the  mountains  to  con- 
sider this  hard  saying.  For  many  years  he  wandered 
over  the  face  of  the  earth  seeking  wisdom.  He  made 
the  Hadj,  he  visited  the  holy  shrines  of  Irak  and 
Turkestan.  And  everywhere  he  sang  praise  of  the 
beauty  and  virtue  of  Khadijah.  He  made  her  fame 
resound  in  the  four  great  courts  of  Islam  and  even  in 
the  lands  of  the  Unbelievers.  After  many  hardships 
by  hill  country  and  plain,  by  desert  and  sea,  he  re- 
turned to  his  own  country.  He  was  worn  by  his 
wayfaring  —  rich  only  in  wisdom. 

"  He  went  once  more  to  the  house  where  Khadijah 
dwelt  alone.  He  knocked  on  the  door  and  once  more 
the  voice  of  his  beloved  asked: 

"'Who  is  there?  > 

"  And  he  answered : 

" i  I  am  Love,     I  am  thou.     We  three  be  One.' 

"  And  his  Beloved  opened  the  door  —  for  truly  the 
water  and  the  cup  and  the  drinker  are  One." 

"  I  don't  see  the  point  of  that,"  Irene  said,  as  Lane 
dropped  his  voice,  evidently  at  the  end  of  the  story. 
"  What  has  the  water  and  the  cup  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  That  is  only  another  way  of  saying  that  Love  and 
the  Lover  and  the  Beloved  are  One.  It  is  a  mystic 
formula  — an  emphasis  on  Monotheism.  It  is  a 
ty?  cal  Eastern  story  in  its  attitude  toward  Love. 
Khadijah  would  not  open  her  door  to  the  individual 
Khamedo,  but  she  welcomed  Love.  The  man  had  no 
significance  by  himself  —  as  a  person ;  it  was  the 
Love  he  brought  which  she  welcomed,  to  which  she 
opened  her  heart.  She  welcomed  the  chance  to  ap- 
proach, through  Love,  the  Oneness,  which  is  God." 


THANKSGIVING  123 

"  It's  too  deep  for  me,"  Helen  said. 

"  It  is  strange/'  Lane  continued.  "  Evidently  this 
story  does  not  appeal  to  you.  But  it  is  one  of  the 
most  popular  in  Sidi  Bobker's  repertoire  —  for  my 
people.  To  us,  the  principal  ills  of  life  come  from 
our  separateness  —  our  '  individuality,'  as  you  call 
it.  We  suffer  because  we  are  isolated  —  exiled  from 
God's  Oneness.  And  Love  is  most  wonderful,  because 
it  offers  escape  from  this  separateness,  this  home- 
sickness—  this  imprisonment  in  our  little  selves. 
Love  leads  out  from  ourself  to  another  and  so  brings 
us  nearer  to  the  ultimate  Unity.  You  Westerners 
love  people,  and  we,  loving  Love,  are  grateful  to  the 
person  who  stirs  Love  within  us.  It  is  a  deeply  re- 
ligious idea  to  us. 

"  One  of  our  poets,  J  ami,  the  Persian,  has  said : 

"  *  Drink  deep  of  earthly  love,  so  will  thy  lip 
The  wine  of  Heaven's  vintage  learn  to  sip/ 

And  Abou  Said,  also  a  Persian,  a  greater  man  and  a 
greater  poet  than  Omar,  has  a  rubaiya  in  the  same 
strain.     It  is  something  like  this : 

"  *  0  Most  Beauteous  One/  I  asked,  '  to  whom  dost  thou  belong?  ? 
She  replied  to  me,  saying,  *  To  myself  alone.     For  I  am  One. 

lly  am  I  the  Love,  the  Lover  and  the  Beloved. 
Alike  am  I  the  mirror,  the  beauty  and  the  vision/  U\ 

"  Of  course  those  are  poor  translations  of  an  idea 
which  is  common  and  very  beautiful  to  us.  We  can- 
not understand  your " 

The  doorbell,  ringing  lustily,  interrupted  him. 
Frank  got  up  amid  protests. 


124  THE  STRANGER 

"  Don't  let  any  one  in." 

"  We  don't  want  to  be  disturbed." 

But  Frank  shook  his  head  hopelessly  as  he  came 
back. 

"  It's  a  young  man  in  a  fez,"  he  said.  "  He  doesn't 
speak  English  very  well.  I  couldn't  take  his  message. 
I  guess  you'll  have  to  talk  to  him,  Lane.  He  men- 
tioned the  Persian  consulate." 

Lane  went  out  in  the  parlor  to  talk  with  the  in- 
terrupter. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  he  said,  when  he  returned.  "  It 
seems  to  be  my  fate  to  be  always  taken  away.  A  poor 
man  is  in  trouble.  Perhaps  I  can  help  him.  I  must 
go  " —  and  then  to  Lillian  — "  it  has  been  most  kind 
of  you,  Mrs.  Lockwood,  to  include  me,  who  am  a 
stranger,  in  your  Thanksgiving  celebration.  I  have 
enjoyed  it  very  much  —  knowing  you  all.  I  thank 
you." 

*  Thanking  us !  "  Frank  protested.  "  Why,  we're 
no  end  obliged  to  you.  We  all  thank  you  for  this 
treat.  We're  sorry  you  must  go.  What  shall  I  do 
with  these  chaps?  Can  they  find  their  way  home 
alone?  " 

"  I  will  tell  them." 

"And  thank  them  for  us,  please,"  Eunice  said. 
"  We  are  sorry  you  have  to  leave.  But  we'll  see  you 
again." 

"  Thanks." 

After  giving  directions  to  the  Moors  and  telling 
Lillian  that  he  would  come  back  in  the  morning  to 
help  her  clear  up,  he  thanked  them  all  again  and  said 
"  good  night." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   NEXT   MORNING 

The  next  morning  about  eight,  Helen,  in  her  dress- 
ing gown,  a  newspaper  under  her  arm,  tiptoed  to 
Eunice's  door  and  silently  pushed  it  open. 

"  How  are  you  this  morning?  " 

Eunice  always  dreaded  the  question.  She  disliked 
to  lie  and  she  disliked  to  admit  her  ill  feelings.  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders  under  the  bedclothes. 

"Are  you  too  tired?"  Helen  insisted. 

"  Oh,  no.  Just  very  tired.  I  don't  sleep  it  off 
as  easily  as  most.  I'll  be  all  right.  What's  the 
news?  " 

"  News?  Our  friend,  Mr.  Lane,  has  a  column  and 
a  half  in  the  newspaper." 

"Not  about  us?" 

"No.  He  didn't  tell  where  he'd  been.  Here  it 
is  —  the  headlines  — '  Arabian  Nights  Entertainment 
in  Jefferson  Market  —  the  grimness  of  the  Night 
Court  touched  with  Oriental  color.'  I'll  skip  the  first 
part  —  it's  supposed  to  be  a  funny  story.  It  seems 
that  a  man  who  couldn't  speak  English  was  brought 
in  for  a  row  with  a  ticket  chopper  in  the  subway. 
The  regular  interpreter  thought  he  was  Chinese.  The 
Chinese  interpreter  thought  he  was  a  Turk.  The 
Turkish  interpreter  said  he  was  Persian.     A  man 

125 


126  THE  STRANGER 

came  from  the  Persian  consulate.  He  couldn't  talk 
with  the  prisoner,  but  said  he  knew  a  man  who  prob- 
ably could  and  he  set  out  to  find  Lane.     I'll  read : 

" '  About  midnight  there  was  a  craning  of  necks  near  the  door 
and  in  came  an  Oriental  potentate  in  flowing  white  robes.  He 
was  led  up  to  the  bar. 

'-'"Can  he  speak  English?"  Judge  Black  asked. 

u  ( u  YeS)  vour  Honor,"  he  answered  for  himself  in  the  purest 
English. 

'""  What's  your  name?" 

"  <  "  Donald  Lane." 

«  t  «  why  do  you  wear  such  outlandish  clothes?  " 

u  tu  I  have  just  come  from  a  fancy  dress  party,  your  Honor. 
Is  it  against  the  law?  " 

"  '  "  Can  you  interpret  for  this  man  ?  " 

"'"I  do  not  know.     I  have  not  seen  him." 

"  l  "  He's  said  to  be  a  Persian.     Can  you  speak  Persian  ?  " 

" ' "  I  can  get  along  in  three  or  four  of  the  languages  they 
speak  in  Persia." 

" ' "  Call  up  the  defendant." 

"'As  soon  as  the  poor  chap  was  brought  in  —  he  was  much 
frightened,  not  knowing  what  it  was  all  about  —  Mr.  Lane  spoke 
up. 

"  '  "  He  is  not  a  Persian,  your  Honor.  He  is  a  Kirghese  from 
Turkestan.     He  is  a  Russian  subject." 

" '  "  Do  you  know  his  language  ?  " 

"'"Not  well.     But  he  probably  speaks  Tatar.     Shall  I  try?" 

" ' "  Tell  him  he  is  accused  of  disorderly  conduct  in  the 
Bleecker  Street  subway  station." 

"  ■  At  the  first  word  in  a  language  he  understood  the  Kirghese 
broke  away  from  the  policeman  who  was  holding  him,  let  out 
a  yell  which  was  probably  meant  for  joy,  threw  himself  on  the 
floor,  and  began  to  kiss  the  hem  of  Mr.  Lane's  fancy  dress. 

u  t  u  rpeN.  him  to  stand  up,"  the  judge  ordered. 

" '  Mr.  Lane  helped  him  to  his  feet  and  talked  with  him  for  a 
minute. 


THE  NEXT  MORNING  127 

"  *  u  Come,  come !  We've  wasted  too  much  time  over  this  case 
already,"  the  judge  said.     "  Is  he  guilty  or  not  guilty?" 

"  ■ "  He  does  not  know  what  such  words  mean,  your  Honor. 
There  was  some  misunderstanding  over  his  ticket " 

"  * "  He  admits  being  in  the  subway  station  at  the  time  men- 
tioned in  the  complaint?" 

m  <  u  Naturally.     That  was  where  he  was  arrested?  " 

" ' "  Naturally  won't  do  in  law.  I  want  to  know  whether  he 
admits " 

" *  "  Your  Honor,  he  does  not  know  the  name  of  the  station. 
He  has  told  me  already  that  he  was  in  a  station.  There  are  two 
men  here,  the  policeman  and  the  subway  guard  who  arrested 
him.  If  you  cannot  believe  them,  I  will  ask  him  to  describe 
the  station.  But  he  is  very  much  confused,  your  Honor.  He 
does  not  understand  why  he  was  beaten." 

"  '  "  Oh,  that's  what  they  always  say." 

« i  u  That  it  happens  often,  your  Honor,  does  not  make  it  any 
easier  for  him  to  understand." 

"  <  "  He  probably  showed  fight." 

u  i  u  Ye&,  of  course.  But  he  was  unarmed  —  what  could  he  do 
against  four  or  five?  He  is  too  much  excited  to  talk  coherently. 
If  you  want  the  truth,  let  me  take  him  into  another  room  for  a 
few  minutes  and  I  will  get  his  story." 

"  '  "  That  isn't  regular  procedure." 

" ' "  Then,  your  Honor,  I  will  have  to  let  your  regular  inter- 
preter attend  to  the  case.  I  do  not  care  to  take  part  in  the 
further  prosecution  of  this  man.  He  has  not  been  proven  guilty 
of  anything.  But  he  was  beaten  in  the  subway  by  the  guard 
and  a  policeman,  manhandled  in  the  station  house  and  again 
here." 

m  i  u  Well,"  Judge  Black  said,  "  I'll  make  an  exception  in  his 
case.    Take  him  into  my  chambers.     See  what  you  can  do.' " 

'  Now,  what  do  you  think  of  that,  Eunice?  He's 
a  queer  fellow,  isn't  he?  I  never  would  have  dreamed 
that  he'd  dare  to  talk  back  to  a  judge  like  that!  " 

•   It  doesn't  surprise  me,"  Eunice  said.     "I  think 


128  THE  STRANGER 

his  embarrassed  manner  is  due  to  us.  He's  not  used 
to  women.  But  I  don't  think  he'd  be  afraid  of  men. 
How  did  the  case  turn  out?  " 

"  Oh,  the  judge  discharged  the  man  in  Lane's  cus- 
tody. Of  course  it  was  all  a  mistake.  He  was  a 
horseback  rider,  come  over  from  Buffalo  Bill's  show 
—  separated  from  his  friends.  You  can  read  about 
it  after  I'm  gone.  Will  you  have  your  coffee  here? 
Good!  Stay  in  bed  and  get  rested.  I'll  dress  and 
have  mine  in  here  with  you." 

Helen,  leaving  the  paper,  went  to  her  room. 
Eunice  sat  up,  crammed  some  pillows  behind  her  back, 
and  read  about  the  Stranger,  while  Jenny,  the  Jamai- 
can maid,  brought  in  a  little  table  and  laid  it  beside 
the  bed.  Soon  Helen,  dressed  for  her  office,  came 
back.     She  poured  out  the  coffee  for  both  of  them. 

"  This  fellow  Lane  is  certainly  queer,"  she  said, 
"  but  he  interests  me." 

"  I  like  him." 

For  a  moment  they  were  silent  and  then  Eunice 
spoke  again. 

"  While  I've  been  lying  here  awake,  I've  been  think- 
ing about  that  story  the  old  man  told.  And  the  more 
you  think  about  it,  the  better  it  is." 

"  It  didn't  make  much  of  a  hit  with  me.  I  don't 
go  in  for  this  esoteric,  mystic  business.  I've  too 
much  to  do,  too  many  real  things  to  attend  to,  to 
waste  time  over  such  things.  And  Oriental  love 
stories  —  well,  there's  always  something  hothouse 
about  them  —  smell  of  the  harem  —  polygamy  and  all 
that." 

"  There  wasn't  anything  polygamous  about  that 


THE  NEXT  MORNING  129 

story,"  Eunice  protested,  "  just  the  opposite,  it  struck 
me." 

"  Well,  perhaps."  Helen's  mind  was  evidently  on 
some  other  aspect  of  the  case.  "  I  don't  know,  but  all 
that  incense,  the  tuberoses,  sort  of  went  to  my  head, 
made  me  feel  sickish.  I  didn't  pay  much  attention  to 
the  story.  It's  too  bad  that  he's  so  wrapped  up  in  the 
East.  If  he'd  had  a  more  normal  life,  he  might  be  a 
fine  fellow." 

"  He  wouldn't  be  so  interesting,  if  he  was  just  like 
everybody  else." 

"  Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say  it's  an  advantage  to 
be  queer.     It's  an  immense  handicap." 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Certainly.  Somebody  ought  to  take  him  in  hand 
and  knock  this  Oriental  nonsense  out  of  him." 

"Are  you  thinking  of  taking  the  job?" 

"  Me? "  Helen  asked  with  a  start,  then  a  laugh. 
"  Oh,  Lord,  no.  I'm  too  busy  to  take  on  any  personal 
reformations.  But,  well,  I  might  find  a  spare  moment 
now  and  then.  I'm  sure  he  has  a  lot  to  him  if  it 
was  only  brought  out.  All  he  needs  is  a  little  steer- 
ing. The  queerest  thing  about  his  is  his  calling  him- 
self a  Mohammedan!  I  can't  help  thinking  that's  a 
pose.  It  is  hard  enough  nowadays  to  find  educated 
people  who  really,  honestly,  believe  in  Christian  the- 
ology. I  can't  imagine  any  intelligent  person  accept- 
ing all  that  Oriental  superstition.  I  wonder  where 
he  found  those  queer  collars.  It  would  be  a  kindness 
for  some  one  to  point  out  to  him  that  it  doesn't  pay 
to  be  queer.  It's  the  worst  reputation  a  person  can 
have." 


130  THE  STRANGER 

She  looked  to  Eunice  for  confirmation.  But 
Eunice's  eyes  were  closed.  She  felt  a  strange  reluc- 
tance to  discuss  Lane  with  Helen. 

"  It  really  would  be  a  kindness,"  Helen  insisted. 

Eunice  did  not  argue.  And  Helen  went  off  to  her 
day's  work. 

Left  alone,  Eunice  thought  over  Helen's  threat  of 
reforming  Lane.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  in  all  their 
long  friendship,  Helen  had  always  succeeded  in  ac- 
complishing what  she  set  out  to  do. 

"Why  can't  she  leave  him  alone?"  Eunice  asked 
herself. 

When  Helen  had  said,  "  He  interests  me,"  Eunice 
had  replied,  "  I  like  him."  There  was  a  vast  differ- 
ence between  these  two  verdicts.  There  was  also  a 
vast  difference  between  the  facts  that  while  Helen 
had  hurried  off  to  a  very  busy  day  in  her  office, 
Eunice  spent  the  morning  in  bed. 

She  thought  over  all  her  men  friends.  She  needed 
a  standard  by  which  to  judge  this  Stranger.  She  did 
not  know  many  men  well.  All  her  friends  were 
secondhand.     They  had  been  Helen's  first. 

Best  of  all  she  liked  Win.  It  was  a  red-letter  day 
for  her  when  he  called  and  Helen  was  out.  Now  and 
then,  when  he  knew  she  was  sick,  he  would  come  and 
sit  by  her  bed.  She  enjoyed  immensely  his  talk  of 
books  and  of  his  dreams.  She  knew  he  liked  her. 
And  at  times  she  had  dreamed  a  tiny  daydream  about 
what  might  have  been  if  she  had  been  well.  Perhaps 
if  only  she  had  been  granted  normal  vitality,  her 
strong  fondness  for  him  might  have  developed  into  this 
tumultuous  thing  about  which  books  are  written  and 


THE  NEXT  MORNING  1 131 

poems  are  sung.  This  was  the  nearest  she  had  ever 
come  to  Romance.  Never  in  all  her  life  had  she  been 
able  to  escape  from  the  fact  that  she  was  not  well. 
It  stood  square  in  the  way  of  so  many  "  might  have 
beens." 

In  some  ways  she  felt  even  closer  to  Frank.  He 
also  liked  her  and  came  frequently  to  advise  her  about 
her  work.  Never  but  once  had  they  talked  together 
of  fundamental  things,  but  between  them  there  was 
the  fellowship  of  thwarted  dreams.  She  had  not  been 
able  to  develop  her  talent  beyond  a  children's  toy. 
She,  of  all  the  group,  saw  most  clearly  into  Frank's 
silent  tragedy.  He  also  must  have  dreams  to  match 
his  talent.  There  were  his  pictures  in  the  Metropoli- 
tan and  the  Luxembourg.  A  few  years  ago  there  had 
been  no  painter  in  America  with  half  his  promise. 
But  Lillian  had  stopped  all  that.  It  was  not  neces- 
sary for  them  to  talk  together.  Now  and  then  Eunice 
caught  in  his  eyes  an  infinitely  sad,  far-away  look  — 
and  understood.  They  each  realized  that  the  other's 
heart  was  not  at  all  in  the  little  tasks  of  everyday. 
They  shared  together  homesickness  for  the  Forests 
of  Arden,  the  exile's  longing  to  see  again  the  Vale 
of  Tempe,  the  heartbreak  of  those  who  have  been  ex- 
communicated from  the  Rites  of  the  Most  Beau- 
tiful Goddess.  But  of  such  things  we  may  not 
speak. 

Lancaster,  she  respected  highly,  but  his  perpetual 
air  of  great  occupations  tired  her.  And  Pete  McGee, 
W€U,  now  that  he  was  leaving  Helen  alone,  Eunice 
missed  his  gay  laugh.  She  had  liked  him  more  than 
she  had  thought. 


132  THE  STRANGER 

But,  quite  definitely,  she  knew  that  she  liked  this 
Stranger  better  than  any  of  them. 

Why  couldn't  Helen  leave  him  alone?  The  bitter- 
est thought,  as  she  lay  there  in  bed,  was  the  certainty 
that,  if  Helen  set  her  mind  to  making  him  over  ac- 
cording to  her  own  specifications,  she  would  succeed. 
She  always  did.  And  the  reformation  of  Lane  was  the 
first  of  her  projects  in  which  Eunice  did  not  wish 
her  success.  So  generally  had  she  approved  of  her 
friend's  activities  that  Eunice  was  genuinely  sur- 
prised at  her  own  feeling  in  this  matter  —  surprised 
to  find  herself  longing  to  warn  him,  to  urge  him  to 
escape  before  he  fell  into  the  toils. 

Helen's  mind,  as  she  rode  uptown  to  her  office, 
was  also  preoccupied  by  the  Stranger.  Was  it  worth 
while  for  her  to  take  a  hand  in  his  affairs?  She 
rather  thought  it  might  be.  And,  it  did  not  occur  to 
her  to  doubt  —  any  more  than  it  did  to  Eunice  —  that 
she  could  succeed,  if  she  set  her  mind  to  it.  But 
once  in  her  office,  all  thought  of  him  was  driven  from 
her  mind  by  the  pile  of  work  on  her  desk. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  STRANGER'S  STORY 

A  few  nights  after  Thanksgiving,  Lane,  as  he  was 
coming  home  to  his  rooms,  noticed  a  light  across  the 
hall  over  Win's  door.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  as 
though  considering  a  momentous  question,  and  then 
knocked.  The  door  was  opened  by  Pete  McGee,  whom 
he  had  not  seen  before. 

a  Oh,  I  beg  pardon,"  Lane  said.  "  I  wanted  to  see 
Mr.  Mathews." 

"  Come  in.     He's  here." 

Lancaster  was  there,  too.  He  had  come  to  read  the 
manuscript  of  the  article  Win  had  written  about 
Inslavsky.     They  both  jumped  up  to  greet  Lane. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,"  Win  said  cordially. 

"  So  am  I,"  Lancaster  chimed  in.  "  When  can  one 
find  you  at  home?  I've  knocked  at  your  door  a  couple 
of  times  —  but  no  answer." 

"  My  name  is  McGee,"  Pete  said.  "  These  gentle- 
men with  their  accustomed  politeness  fail  to  intro- 
duce us,  but  I  gather  that  you  are  Mr.  Lane,  the  Man 
of  Mystery." 

"  Yes.  Lane  is  my  name.  I  am  glad  to  make  your 
acquaintance.  But  I  did  not  know  I  was  a  Man  of 
Mystery." 

u  You  didn't?  Well,  you  don't  realize  your  assets. 
Sit  down.     Have  one  of  your  estimable  cigarettes  — 

133 


134  THE  STRANGER 

we're  all  smoking  them  now.    And  I'll  put  the  case 
to  you. 

"  I've  been  playing  around  witlr  this  crowd  for  a 
dozen  odd  years.  I  go  up  to  Albany  for  a  few  days 
and  come  back  to  find  them  all  talking  about  a  new- 
comer, who  —  count  one  —  plays  an  outlandish  musi- 
cal instrument  and  looks  down  with  pity  on  us  who 
know  no. better  than  to  like  pipe  organs  and  violins; 
who  ■ —  count  two  —  worships  a  strange  god,  although 
his  father  is  reported  to  have  been  a  Christian 
missionary;  who — count  three  —  speaks  English 
fluently  and  a  dozen  other  unfamiliar  languages 
equally  well.  Let's  see  —  you  are  charged  with 
knowing  four  or  five  dialects  of  Arabic,  Berber, 
Armenian,  Tatar,  Persian,  and  Turkish,  that's  a 
rather  mysterious  assortment  of  tongues;  and  who 
—  count  four  —  is  greeted  by  a  Russian  revolution- 
ist as  comrade  and  also  speaks  that  language,  which 
I  forgot  to  mention ;  and  —  count  five  —  owns  Alad- 
din's lamp,  claps  his  hands,  and  produces  a  full- 
blown Oriental  banquet  in  a  New  York  studio. 
Now  if  all  this  does  not  constitute  a  Man  of  Mystery, 
I  don't  know  what  the  phrase  means." 

Lane  was  a  bit  dazed  by  this  long  bill  of  indictment, 
but,  as  Eunice  had  said  to  Helen,  he  was  not  at  all 
afraid  of  men.  Besides  he  had  decided  that  he  wanted 
to  be  friends  with  these  people.  On  the  whole  he  was 
amused  at  the  speculation  he  had  unwittingly  aroused. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  plead  guilty  to  an  unusual 
facility  for  languages,"  he  said  apologetically.  "  But 
it  really  is  not  my  fault.  I  seem  to  have  been  born 
with  it.     All  the  rest  is  commonplace  enough.     I  am  . 


THE  STRANGER'S  STORY  135 

sorry  I  did  not  make  it  clear  at  first.  I  read  in  a  book 
on  etiquette  that  it  was  not  good  form  to  talk  about 
oneself.  But  if  you  are  interested,  I  will  tell  you 
my  history." 

"  Go  to  it,"  Pete  said. 

"And  don't  make  it  too  brief,"  Lancaster  put  in. 

"  The  night  is  young  yet,"  Win  added. 

"  Oh,  do  not  worry.  There  is  nothing  in  my  story 
to  keep  you  up  late.  My  life  has  been  very  interesting 
to  me,  but  I  do  not  think  it  will  be  to  others.  I  do 
not  know  exactly  when  I  was  born  —  a  little  more 
than  thirty  years  ago  —  in  Marakesh  — '  Morocco 
City/  your  English  maps  call  it.  My  parents  had 
gone  there  as  missionaries.  My  mother  died  when  I 
was  a  baby.  I  do  not  remember  her.  My  father, 
who  was  a  doctor,  died  when  I  was  about  fifteen.  He 
never  told  me  about  my  childhood,  so  I  am  vague 
about  that.  Perhaps  I  had  been  baptized  a  Christian. 
I  do  not  know.  But  long  before  I  can  remember,  my 
father  had  become  a  Mohammedan.  In  my  earliest 
recollections,  we  were  Muslims.     I  went " 

"  If  you  don't  mind  being  cross-questioned,"  McGee 
interrupted,  "  I'd  like  to  ask  about  your  father.  It 
isn't  often  that  a  missionary  embraces  the  religion  he 
started  out  to  combat.     Why  did  he  change?  " 

Lane  considered  a  moment. 

"  I  am  not  altogether  sure  myself.  You  see  I  was 
only  a  boy  when  my  father  died.  It  seemed  so  natural 
to  me  to  be  a  Mohammedan  —  I  did  not  know  any 
Christians  —  that  I  never  asked  him  about  it.  And 
yet  I  think  I  understand. 

"As  I  remember  him,  the  reality  of  his  religion 


130  THE  STRANGER 

was  a  passion  to  help  people  in  pain.  He  was  like 
Abou  Ben  Adhem,  in  your  poem,  he  loved  his  fellow 
men.  I  do  not  know  why  he  first  went  out  as  a 
missionary.  Perhaps  he  had  heard  that  there  was  a 
great  need  for  doctors  in  Morocco.  Perhaps  my 
mother,  whom  he  loved  very  much,  was  more  devout. 

"  When  she  died,  my  father  did  not  want  to  leave 
her  alone  in  a  strange  land.  He  often  said  he  wanted 
to  be  buried  beside  her.  And  when  he  had  decided 
to  live  there  all  the  rest  of  his  life,  I  think  he  felt 
that  he  could  serve  his  fellow  men  better,  that  he 
could  have  a  greater  influence  for  good,  could  more 
easily  cure  the  ills  of  their  bodies,  if  he  were  really 
one  of  them.  And  so  he  became  a  Muslim.  At  least 
this  is  how  I  think  he  felt. 

"  It  would  not  seem  so  strange  to  you,  if  you 
knew  Mohammedan  countries.  In  the  Levant  there 
are  many  native  Christians  —  Armenians,  Syrians, 
Greeks,  Copts,  and  Bulgars.  When  the  missionaries 
there  find  that  they  cannot  make  converts  of  the 
Mohammedans,  they  turn  to  these  native  Christians 
and  do  much  good  for  them  in  their  hospitals  and 
schools.  Most  of  the  missionaries  I  have  known  are 
good  people.  I  imagine  that  they  find  it  easier  to  be 
Christians  among  us  than  here  in  America.  In  the 
East,  we  respect  all  people  who  sincerely  try  to  find 
God,  even  if  we  think  they  are  on  the  wrong  path. 

"  But  in  Morocco  there  are  no  native  Christians. 
The  missionaries  in  Marakesh  have  a  few  orphan 
boys  and  girls  in  their  school,  but  when  I  was  there 
last  they  had  only  one  adult  convert  —  and  I  do  not 
think  they  are  very  proud  of  him.    They  have  a  doctor 


THE  STRANGER'S  STORY  137 

there  now;  he  tries  very  hard  to  do  good.  But  the 
people  will  not  go  to  him  because,  in  such  very  bad 
Arabic,  he  tells  them  things  about  their  religion 
which  are  not  true.  Even  here  in  a  Christian  land, 
I  do  not  think  that  you  would  go  to  a  doctor  who  was 
more  interested  in  your  soul  than  in  your  stomach  or 
your  sore  finger  or  whatever  it  was  that  was  hurting 
you." 

"  You  needn't  deal  tenderly  with  the  missionaries," 
Win  said.  "  We  don't  subscribe  to  foreign  missions. 
We're  trying  to  put  our  own  house  in  order." 

"  There  is  another  thing  in  Morocco  which  perhaps 
influenced  my  father.  Outside  of  the  half  dozen  mis- 
sionaries, there  are  very  few  decent  Christians.  I 
think  that  if  you  had  to  live  there  —  after  you  had 
got  to  know  the  Europeans  —  you  would  not  like  to 
be  called  a  Christian.  They  are  dishonest  merchants, 
their  word  cannot  be  trusted,  and  they  make  vice  an 
open  show  in  our  streets.  And  also  they  are  drunk- 
ards. My  father  was  a  great  believer  in  temperance. 
And  our  people  never  touch  alcohol  —  except  in  the 
coast  towns  like  Tangier,  where  contact  with  Chris- 
tians has  debauched  them.  My  father  often  spoke  to 
me  of  that. 

"  I  do  not  know  just  what  was  in  my  father's  mind 
when  he  went  into  the  mosque  to  pray.  I  think  re- 
ligion is  more  a  matter  of  feeling  than  of  reason.  If 
a  person  has  thought  about  theology  till  he  has  lost 
faith  in  the  God  of  his  childhood,  I  doubt  if  he  will 
ever  believe  very  deeply  in  another  god.  I  do  not 
know  whether  my  father  was  a  really  devout  Muslim. 
Perhaps  he  had  been  a  sort  of  Christian  Agnostic  and 


138  THE  STRANGER 

became  a  Mohammedan  Agnostic.  He  was  too  much 
of  a  scientist  to  give  much  weight  to  dogmas.  It  did 
not  matter  to  him  what  people  he  served  nor  what 
they  believed.  He  was  glad  to  help  them  with  what 
skill  and  instruments  and  drugs  he  had. 

"  As  I  said,  I  do  not  know  whether  he  was  exactly 
orthodox  in  his  theology.  But  as  far  back  as  I  can 
remember  he  was  a  Maraboo,  a  saint.  He  did  good  to 
every  one  and  every  one  loved  him.  Even  now  —  even 
in  far-away  corners  of  the  mountains  —  I  am  sure  to 
be  treated  kindly  because  I  am  my  father's  son. 

"  There  is  a  legend  among  the  people  that  he  was 
buried  beside  his  wife.  He  was  not.  But  many  peo- 
ple come  to  her  grave  to  pray.  It  is,  perhaps,  funny, 
Mohammedans  praying  beside  the  tomb  of  a  Christian 
woman.     But  it  makes  me  very  proud  of  my  father. 

"  He  always  spoke  English  to  me  and  taught  me  to 
read  and  write.  He  intended  to  send  me  to  America 
to  study  medicine.  And  I  went  to  the  school  of  his 
Zawia " 

"What's  aZawia?" 

"  Oh,  there  are  many  sects  in  Islam  —  somewhat 
like  your  religious  orders.  My  father  belonged  to 
the  Khaderia.  They  are  followers  of  Muley  Abd 
el-Khader  el-Jilani,  a  saint  who  lived  in  the  twelfth 
century  of  your  era.  He  is  the  patron  of  beggars 
and  all  who  are  in  need.  He  was  a  good  deal  like 
St.  Francis  d'Assisi.  Each  chapter  house  —  Zaw'ia 
—  has  a  school  for  the  children  of  the  members. 
They  are  not  very  good  schools,  only  the  language  and 
the  Koran. 

"  So  I  learned  the  classic  Arabic  at  school  and  the 


THE  STRANGER'S  STORY  139 

Marakesh  dialect  from  the  boys,  and  my  foster-mother 
was  a  Berber  woman  from  the  Sous  Valley.  The  book 
I  am  now  working  on  is  a  collection  of  the  songs  and 
stories  she  taught  me.  The  Berber  folklore  is  very 
interesting.  Long  ago  they  worshiped  a  female 
deity  —  the  Astarte  of  the  Phoenicians.  They  are  a 
Semitic  people.  Many  of  their  epics  and  stories  have 
a  heroine  instead  of  a  hero.  Of  course  that  was  long 
before  they  became  Christians." 

"  Didn't  you  say  that  there  weren't  any  native 
Christians?  "  Win  asked. 

"  Oh,  there  are  none  now.  The  Berbers  were 
Christians  under  the  Roman  Empire  —  for  several 
hundred  years  before  Mohammed  was  born.  But  by 
the  end  of  the  seventh  century  of  your  era  they  were 
converted  to  Islam. 

"When  I  was  about  fifteen  my  father  took  me  on 
the  Iladj  to  Mecca.  Almost  all  the  Christian  books 
on  Islam  speak  lightly  of  the  Pilgrimage.  It  seems 
strange  to  me  that  you,  who  make  so  much  of  conven- 
tions —  hardly  a  day  passes  when  some  of  you  do  not 
rush  off  to  a  congress  or  conference,  sometimes  half- 
way around  the  world  —  it  is  strange  that  you  do  not 
understand  how  important  the  Pilgrimage  is  to  us. 
It  is  the  General  Assembly  of  our  Church,  a  Parlia- 
ment of  Nations  for  political  discussions,  a  conference 
of  savants,  a  tournament  of  poetry,  all  rolled  into 
one.  It  is  the  strongest  unifying  force  of  our  civili- 
zation. I  think  it  was  the  wisest  and  most  states- 
manlike thing  our  Prophet  did  for  us. 

"  It  was  at  Mecca  that  I  first  became  really  inter- 
ested in  languages.    I  met  boys  whose  speech  I  could 


140  THE  STRANGER 

not  understand.  I  learned  a  good  deal  of  Afghan 
from  one  of  them  and  from  another  some  of  a  language 
I  have  never  been  able  to  identify.  Perhaps  it  was 
some  obscure,  unstudied  Malay  dialect. 

"  The  plague  was  bad  that  year  —  worse  than  usual. 
On  the  way  home  there  was  an  epidemic  in  one  of  the 
Syrian  ports.  I  do  not  remember  which  one,  nor  how 
we  got  there.  Of  course  we  stopped.  Father,  being 
a  doctor,  had  to.  There  were  some  missionary  doctors 
also  who  came  to  fight  the  plague.  They  were  the 
first  people,  besides  my  father  and  a  man  on  the  street 
in  Cairo,  with  whom  I  had  ever  talked  English.  I 
suppose  father  told  them  who  he  was.  Anyhow, 
when  he  caught  the  plague,  he  asked  them  to  take  care 
of  me  and  give  me  an  education.  He  always  wanted 
me  to  be  a  doctor. 

"  He  died  there.  It  was  very  sad ;  he  could  not  be 
buried  beside  my  mother. 

"  I  do  not  remember  very  well  what  happened  after 
that.  I  did  not  care.  There  was  almost  a  fight  be- 
tween our  Moorish  friends  and  the  missionaries  over 
who  should  take  care  of  me.  I  did  not  want  to  go 
with  the  strangers.  But  my  father  had  wished  it,  so 
I  did.  They  took  me  to  their  school  at  Beirut.  They 
were  very  good  to  me.  I  remember  especially  one 
woman  —  so  kind !  —  like  a  mother,  I  suppose.  I  do 
not  remember  my  own.  But  they  tried  to  make  a 
Christian  of  me.  I  was  only  a  youngster,  about  fif- 
teen. I  thought  my  father  was  the  best  and  wisest 
man  who  Uad  ever  lived.  He  was  a  Mohammedan. 
All  the  people  I  had  ever  known  thought  it  was  horri- 
ble for  a  Muslim  to  become  a  renegade.     So,  as  they 


THE  STRANGER'S  STORY  141 

would  not  let  me  alone,  I  ran  away.  When  I  got  to 
Constantinople " 

"  Hold  on,"  McGee  interrupted.  "  How  did  you  get 
to  Constantinople?  I  don't  suppose  you  stole  the 
foreign  mission  funds  to  buy  a  steamer  ticket,  and  you 
haven't  told  us  yet  about  finding  the  Magic  Carpet." 

"  Oh,  now,"  Lane  protested,  laughing.  "  You  must 
not  look  for  mysteries.  It  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world  to  be  a  tramp  in  the  East.  Especially  return- 
ing from  the  Hadj.  We  have  no  laws  against 
vagrants.  It  is  permitted  to  beg.  You  can  sleep  in 
the  mosques  and  nearly  everywhere  I  would  find  a 
Zawia  of  the  Khaderla.  And  sometimes  I  worked. 
I  went  overland  across  Asia  Minor.  I  suppose  it  took 
me  about  six  months  to  get  to  Constantinople. 

"  And  there  I  fell  into  luck  —  a  job,  as  guide,  for 
a  family  of  American  tourists.  It  was  funny.  Con- 
stantinople is  a  big  city  —  the  largest  I  had  ever  seen. 
I  did  not  know  my  way  about,  but  on  the  road  I  had 
picked  up  a  good  deal  of  Turkish  —  enough  to  ask 
questions.  Every  morning  I  would  go  up  to  their 
hotel.  Perhaps  they  would  say  that  they  wanted  to 
visit  the  mosque  of  Akmet.  I  had  never  heard  of  it. 
i  Yes,'  I  would  say,  *  Alonce,  veree  queek.'  I  was 
afraid  to  speak  good  English  in  those  days  for  fear 
they  would  try  to  make  a  Christian  of  me.  I  would 
put  them  in  a  cab  and  get  up  beside  the  driver  and  on 
the  way  I  would  ask  him  to  tell  me  about  the 
Mosque  of  Akmet.  They  never  suspected  how  little 
I  knew  about  Constantinople. 

"  One  day  they  wanted  to  go  out  to  Robert  College 
on  the  Bosporus.     I  had  heard  about  it  at  Beirut. 


142  THE  STRANGER 

I  did  not  forget  that  my  father  wanted  me  to  have 
an  American  education.  So  I  asked  a  good  many 
questions.  When  my  tourists  found  out  I  was  inter- 
ested they  gave  some  money  to  the  college  —  like  a 
scholarship.  So  when  they  left  Constantinople  I  went 
there." 

"Is  it  a  good  college?"  Pete  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes.  Like  any  college,  like  Oxford  or  Har- 
vard —  good,  if  you  want  to  learn.  Very  soon  I  saw 
that  I  could  not  be  a  good  doctor,  I  was  so  much  more 
interested  in  languages.  Latin  was  hard,  because 
you  have  to  learn  it  out  of  books.  But  Greek  was 
easy  —  there  were  several  Greek  boys  in  the  college. 
And  Bulgarian  and  Armenian  also.  And  there  was  a 
Jew  from  Salonica.  I  learned  Spanish  and  some 
Hebrew  from  him.  And  of  course  German  and 
French.  I  read  all  the  books  I  could  find.  I  liked 
mathematics,  too.  I  have  quite  a  reputation  among 
my  people  because  I  know  algebra  and  geometry  and 
a  little  about  the  stars." 

"  Didn't  they  try  to  make  a  Christian  of  you 
there?  "  Lancaster  asked 

"A  little,  not  much.  They  did  not  know  about 
my  father.  I  told  them  I  had  learned  English,  being 
a  servant  in  the  American  consulate  in  Tangier." 

"  How  long  were  you  there?  " 

"Five  or  six  years.  Since  then  I've  wandered 
about  a  good  deal.  I  went  to  England  once.  In  In- 
dia, I  met  an  Englishman  who  was  writing  a  book 
on  Persian  literature.  I  had  come  to  India  by  way 
of  Persia.  I  am  very  fond  of  Persian  poetry.  Some 
of  his  ideas  were  all  wrong,  but  he  was  not  a  fool. 


THE  STRANGER'S  STORY  143 

He  wanted  it  to  be  right  and  asked  me  to  come  to 
England  to  help  him.  He  was  a  professor  at  Oxford. 
I  spent  nearly  a  year  there.  I  made  some  corrections 
in  the  catalogue  of  the  library  —  the  Bodleian.  Also 
a  little  work  in  the  British  Museum.  But  I  did  not 
like  England  —  London,  not  at  all.  So  I  went  to 
Egypt  —  studied  for  a  while  in  the  Al  Azhar  Univer- 
sity in  Cairo.  They  I  went  up  into  the  Sudan.  I 
wanted  to  see  the  land  of  the  Black  People  and  learn 
their  language.  I  came  back  through  Tripoli  and 
Tunisia.  I  stopped  more  than  a  year  in  Kairwan  — 
there  are  some  very  precious  manuscripts  in  the  li- 
brary there. 

"Then  I  went  back  to  Marakesh,  my  old  home, 
three  years  ago.  I  did  not  expect  to  stay,  just  a 
visit  to  make  some  inquiries  about  my  father.  But  I 
found  it  very  pleasant  in  Marakesh.  Many  of  my 
father's  friends  are  still  alive.  They  were  glad  to 
see  me.  They  were  afraid  the  missionaries  had  made 
a  Christian  of  me.  And  I  found  that  my  father  had 
owned  the  house  where  I  had  been  a  boy  —  it  has  a 
very  beautiful  garden.  Also  there  is  a  farm  in  the 
High  Atlas,  which  the  Kaid  of  Glawi  had  given  him 
—  all  waiting  for  me.  Every  one  urged  me  to  stay. 
The  fatted  calf  tastes  very  good,  even  if  one  does  not 
deserve  it. 

"  Last  year  Professor  Petroff  of  Harvard  Univer- 
sity came  to  Marakesh.  He  is  a  fine  man,  a  real 
scholar.  He  wanted  me  to  come  and  do  some  work 
with  him.  I  had  some  curiosity  to  see  the  land  of 
my  father  and  mother,  and  I  had  the  habit  of  roaming, 
so  I  came." 


144  THE  STRANGER 

""Do  you  like  it?" 

"  Not  much.  No,  I  must  be  truthful,  even  if  it  is 
impolite.  I  do  not  like  it,  but  I  want  to  stay  a  little 
longer.  I  do  not  want  to  go  away  until  I  understand 
America  better." 

He  lit  a  new  cigarette  and  puffed  at  it  for  se\ 
minutes. 

"  It  is  very  interesting,  but  I  do  not  understand 
your  life  at  all.  You  have  so  many  things  to  make 
you  happy  —  but  you  do  not  seem  happy.  So  many 
comforts  —  but  you  do  not  seem  comfortable.  It 
is  especially  your  women.  I  do  not  know  many  of 
them.  A  few  servants,  a  few  professors'  wives. 
They  seem  sad  to  me.  And  also  the  women  in  youi 
books. 

"  Even  your  kitchen  maids  know  so  much  more  than 
our  women.  They  ought  to  be  —  but  I  do  not  think 
they  are —  happier.  I  do  not  think  they  make  the 
men  who  marry  them  as  happy  as  our  women  do, 
either." 

"  Evidently,  you  are  not  thinking  of  marrying  an 
American  girl,"  Win  said. 

"No,"  Lane  laughed.  "Anyhow,  they  would  be 
afraid  of  a  Mohammedan.  They  have  been  scared  by 
the  stories  of  our  harem  which  the  missionaries  bring 
home." 

"Now,  if  you  want  to  remain  single,  Mr.   Lain. 
Pete  said  solemnly,  "don't  rely  on  that!     There*! 
nothing  to  catch  a  woman's  imagination  like  a  little 
mystery." 

u  But  there  is  no  mystery.  It  is  as  simple  as 
A,  B,  C." 


THE  STRANGER'S  STORY  145 

The  three  men  laughed. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  your  idea  of  complexity,"  Win 
said,  "  if  you  think  your  story  is  so  simple.  In 
your  boots,  I'd  feel  that  I  had  had  a  fairly  exciting 
life  —  not  to  say  complex" 

"  You've  left  out  the  part  I'd  be  most  interested 
in,"  Lancaster  said;  "about  Russia." 

"  Oh,  there  is  nothing  interesting  about  that. 
Inslavsky  exaggerates  what  I  did  for  him  —  By 
the  way,  Mr.  Mathews,  I  came  in  to  ask  you  a  question. 
You  see,  I  am  not  familiar  with  your  social  usages. 
I  bought  a  book  on  etiquette,  but  it  is  not  very  clear. 
Now,  you  have  all  been  so  kind  to  me  —  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Lockwood  and  the  young  ladies.  What  ought  I  to  do? 
I  tried  to  call  on  the  Lockwoods  this  afternoon  at 
five,  as  the  book  says,  but  they  were  not  at  home." 

*  You  might  as  well  throw  that  book  away,"  Win 
ted,  "  it  won't  help  you  with  our  crowd;  we're  not 
a  liit  formal.  It's  a  courtesy  to  make  a  dinner  call 
wherever  you've  had  a  meal.  But  it  isn't  your  fault 
if  the  Lockwoods  weren't  home.  You've  done  your 
•liny.  I  Jut  I'm  sure  they  want  to  see  more  of  you. 
Gal]  them  up  on  the  telephone,  if  you  care  to,  and 
ask  when  you  can  find  them  in.  You'd  be  welcome." 
And  the  young  ladies?  Mrs.  Lockwood  took  me 
to  their  apartment  the  other  night.  Is  it  proper  for 
me  to  call  on  them  by  myself?  " 

"  Sure,"  Pete  said.     "  Do  what  you  want  to  do. 
I  >  *  ►  1 1  t  call  before  seven  in  the  morning  unless  they 
<>u  to  breakfast  and  don't  stay  after  three  A.  M. 
unless  they  urge  you  to." 

Fou're  joking,"  Lane  said. 


146  THE  STRANGER 

"  Pete's  always  flippant/'  Win  said.  "  It  isn't  his 
fault.  It's  like  your  talent  for  languages.  He  was 
born  that  way.  Call  on  them  any  afternoon  after 
four  or  in  the  evening.  Miss  Cash  is  often  out  in 
the  evening,  Miss  Bender  very  seldom.  You  know  she 
is  not  strong.  So,  if  you  go  after  dinner,  it's  best 
not  to  stay  late,  as  she's  easily  tired.  Call  some  after- 
noon. If  they're  not  in,  leave  your  card  and  then 
make  an  appointment  by  telephone." 

"  Thanks,  very  much,"  Lane  said,  getting  up  to  go. 
"  I  like  to  get  acquainted  with  people,  but  I'm  rather 
afraid  of  being  laughed  at.     Good  night,  all." 

"  I  envy  your  aplomb,  Pete,"  Win  said,  when  Lane 
had  gone.  "  Here  we've  been  consumed  with  curiosity 
about  him  and  didn't  have  the  nerve  to  ask.  You 
come  out  with  it  flat-footed  —  and  I  don't  think  he 
was  offended." 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  McGee  retorted.  "  Why 
should  he  be?  He  hasn't  anything  to  hide.  One 
look  is  enough  to  see  that  he's  the  right  sort.  It's 
real  diffidence,  not  secretiveness,  that's  kept  him  from 
talking  —  diffidence  and  his  fool  book  on  etiquette. 
I've  often  seen  books  like  that  advertised  and  won- 
dered who  read  them.  He's  the  first  person  I  ever 
knew  who  took  them  seriously." 

"  I  wonder,"  Lancaster  said,  "  why  he's  so  close- 
mouthed  about  his  Russian  experiences." 

"  Oh,  hell !  Make  a  mystery  about  that  if  you  want 
to.  Perhaps  he  threw  a  bomb  at  a  prime  minister. 
Just  as  likely  he  had  an  unfortunate  love  affair. 
Anyhow,  I  believe  what  he  says.  He  doesn't  think 
it's  interesting.     He's  a  good  fellow." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    CALL 

A  few  minutes  after  five,  three  days  later,  the 
Stranger  made  his  call.  In  the  hallway  of  the  apart- 
ment house  he  told  the  negro  boy  at  the  telephone 
switchboard  that  his  name  was  Lane  and  that  he  was 
calling  on  Miss  Cash  and  Miss  Bender.  He  had  care- 
fully listened  to  and  noted  these  formalities  when  he 
had  come  before  with  Lillian  Lockwood.  In  a  few 
minutes  an  answer  came  down.  The  boy  told  him 
that  they  were  at  home  and  took  him  upstairs  in  the 
elevator.  Jenny,  the  Jamaican  maid,  opened  the  door 
and  once  more  assured  him  that  the  young  ladies  were 
at  home.  Her  dialect  caught  his  attention.  He  was 
tempted  to  stop  and  talk  with  her,  but  decided  that 
it  might  not  be  proper.  So,  giving  her  his  hat  and 
coat,  he  started  down  the  hallway. 

He  could  hear  Helen  saying,  into  a  dictaphone: 
"  I  can  give  you  my  personal  assurance  that  the  money 
will  be  expended  efficiently. "  He  frowned  at  the 
sound.  No  one  has  yet  discovered  how  to  dictate  in 
a  pleasing  tone.  As  he  passed  the  open  door  of  her 
little  office,  Helen  spoke  to  him. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Lane?  Glad  to  see  you.  Ex- 
cuse me  for  a  minute.  I  have  a  batch  of  letters  I 
must  finish.  You'll  find  Miss  Bender  in  the  library. 
She'll  entertain  you  till  I  come." 

147 


148  THE  STRANGER 

This  was  not  crude  conceit  on  Helen's  part.  Don 
inance  was  her  birthright.  She  was  the  senior  mena 
ber  of  the  firm  of  Cash  and  Bender.  She  took  it  fo 
granted  that  people  who  called  at  the  Flat  came  to 
see  her.     They  generally  did. 

"  Do  not  let  me  interrupt  you,"  Lane  said  with  i 
touch  of  eagerness,  which  was  hardly  polite.  Bu 
Helen  did  not  notice  it. 

Eunice,  overhearing  this  conversation,  got  up  fron 
the  couch,  threw  back  the  rug  from  her  feet,  am 
patted  her  hair.  It  was  very  beautiful  hair.  It  wa 
her  one  vanity.  Several  times  in  her  illnesses  tin 
doctors  had  advised  cutting  it.  But  she  had  a  super 
stition  that  her  hair  was  like  Samson's,  that  if  i 
were  cut  all  virtue  would  depart  from  her.  She  ha« 
always  resisted. 

Her  gown  also  seemed  wonderful  to  Lane.  It  wa 
of  soft,  deep  blue  crepe,  there  were  cuffs  and  a  girdli 
and  bodice  decorations  of  a  stiff,  old-gold  brocade 
Eunice  had  worn  it  now  three  afternoons  running- 
ever  since  Win  told  them  of  Lane's  threatened  call 
She  would  have  felt  amply  repaid  for  the  trouble 
if  she  had  known  how  beautiful  it  seemed  to  hiiq 
But  he  had  been  reared  in  a  school  where  it  is  net 
seemly  for  a  man  to  express  openly  his  admiration  Ci 
a  strange  woman. 

In  her  hand  she  held  a  large,  thin,  gaudily  illun 
trated  children's  book.  The  pictures,  in  the  cole 
and  style  of  a  Sunday  comic  supplement,  port  rave 
the  incredible  adventures  of  an  impossible  aniim; 
called  the  "  Dipsomar." 

"You  see/'  she  said,  when  she  had  helped  hii 


THE  CALL  ,  149 

hrough  the  awkwardness  of  greeting.  "  I'm  study- 
ng  the  work  of  my  newest  rival." 

Evidently  he  did  not  understand. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  know  my  trade.  I'm  an  enter- 
ainer  of  children.  I'm  not  strong  enough  to  go  on 
he  stage  for  them.  So  I  stay  at  home  and  draw 
)ietures.  It  is  something  I  can  do  in  bed.  Not  a 
rery  dignified  profession  —  but  it's  profitable.  I 
nanage  to  pay  my  board  and  lodging  and  doctor's 
jill." 

This  was  a  very  unusual  speech  for  Eunice.  She 
seldom  alluded  to  her  illness,  being  morbidly  sensi- 
ive  on  the  subject.  And  it  was  as  rare  for  her  to 
jpeak  of  her  work.  The  people  she  saw  oftenest  did 
lot  take  it  very  seriously,  and  she  was  quite  willing 
lot  to  have  it  discussed. 

But  some  impulse  came  to  her  from  this  Stranger, 
which  drove  her  to  introduce  these  subjects.  Three 
days  she  had  sat  there  waiting  for  him  with  this  fool- 
ish book  close  at  hand.  The  speech  was  carefully 
rehearsed.  She  was  deliberatly  putting  her  worst 
foot  forward. 

"  You  make  books  for  children?  "  he  asked.  "  May 
[  see  one  of  them?  " 

u  Vm  afraid  you'd  find  this  one  more  interesting. 
My  publishers  tell  me  that  a  great  many  people  do." 

"  I  would  rather  see  one  of  yours,"  he  said,  putting 
down  the  Dipsomar  book,  which  she  offered  him  on 
the  table. 

a  t v 

She  started  to  say  that  she  had  not  thought  polite 
flattery  was  one  of  his  accomplishments,  but  he  had 


150  THE  STRANGER 

spoken  so  simply  that  perhaps  it  was  not  a  banality. 
So  she  interrupted  herself  to  take  down  one  of  her 
own  books  from  the  shelves  behind  her  couch. 

"It's  just  out,"  she  said,  "for  this  Christmas 
trade." 

It  was  called  "  The  Adventures  of  Tit,  Tat,  Toe  and 
Little  Tot  in  Europe."  On  each  right-hand  page 
there  was  a  picture  of  the  four  youngsters  and  their 
nurses  surrounded  by  the  children  of  Holland  or 
Spain  or  some  other  country  of  Europe.  It  was  deli- 
cate line  work,  heightened  here  and  there  with  a 
touch  of  color.  The  drawings  were  intimate  and  sur- 
prisingly varied.  On  the  left-hand  pages  were  the 
rhymed  stories  of  the  children's  adventures.  The 
verses  were  not  so  brilliant  as  the  drawing,  but  much 
above  the  average  of  such  work.  And  they  did  not 
belong  to  that  type  of  "  children's  poetry  "  which  is 
written  to  amuse  grown-ups. 

Lane  turned  the  pages  slowly,  attentively.  A 
scene  on  a  French  beach  caught  his  eye.  There  was  a 
little  gamin  in  a  black  apron  that  might  have  been 
drawn  from  the  son  of  his  concierge  in  the  pension 
where  he  had  stopped  in  Paris.  Germany  and  the 
northern  countries  he  did  not  know.  But  Naples  was 
familiar  and  the  picture  true. 

"  You  have  been  abroad  a  great  deal,"  he  said. 

"  No.     I've  never  been  out  of  the  United  States." 

He  looked  up  at  her  in  amazement. 

"But  how  do  you  draw  such  pictures?" 

"  Photographs.  Books."  She  pulled  down  from 
the  shelves  a  volume  called  "  Children  of  All  Lands." 
"  This  helps  me  most." 


THE  CALL  151 

"Your  eyes  must  be  wonderful  to  catch  all  the 
nuances,  the  distinctive  details.  It  is  a  little  like  my 
ears.  I  am  sharp  on  sounds  —  on  the  shades  that 
most  people  do  not  hear.  But  I  cannot  see  things 
the  way  you  do.     It  is  marvelous." 

Again  the  compliment  was  so  direct  that  Eunice 
did  not  know  how  to  turn  it.  Very  much  deeper  was 
the  unspoken  compliment.  He  was  interested  in  her 
work,  of  which  others  thought  lightly.  He  had  not 
said  —  "  How  clever !  "  She  hated  people  who  called 
her  work  "  clever." 

"  I  m  doing  another  book  for  next  year,"  she  said 
eagerly.  "  They  want  it  to  be  about  the  Orient.  If 
it  wouldn't  bore  you,  I'd  like  to  show  the  drawings 
I've  already  made.  Of  course,  they're  just  rough 
sketches.     Would  it  bore  you?" 

"  No,  indeed.     I  would  like  to  see  them." 

"  I'll  get  the  portfolio  —  why,  here  it  is." 

When  Eunice  had  put  it  there  behind  the  couch, 
she  had  laughed  at  herself  —  bitterly.     There  was  not 
one  chance  in  a  thousand  that  he  would  be  interested.- 
But  he  was. 

"  I  have  never  been  in  China,"  he  said,  as  he  turned 
over  the  first  sketch  with  a  glance.     "  Nor  in  Japan." 

"  That's  supposed  to  be  Constantinople." 

In  the  foreground  was  the  Galatea  Bridge  with 
the  heights  of  Stamboul  behind.  He  looked  at  it 
earnestly. 

"  Do  you  want  it  to  be  quite  right?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"Well,  you  cannot  see  Santa  Sophia  from  here, 
looking  up  the  Golden  Horn,  it  is  too  far  to  the  left. 


152  THE  STRANGER 

You  would  see  the  Sekretariat,  an  uglj  square  tower, 
and  the  Mosque  of  Sultan  Mehmed,  the  Victorious. 
It  has  only  two  minarets.  And  this  boat  —  I  worked 
on  one  once  —  it  is  a  Marmora  boat.  They  anchor  be- 
low the  bridge.  The  Bosporus  boats  that  come  up  here 
have  flat,  low  bows  and  light  masts,  which  they  take 
down  to  get  under  the  bridge.  These  people  walking 
across  are  very  good.  I  can  recognize  them.  This 
man  is  an  Anatolian.  And  this  one  is  a  Kurd.  And 
here  is  a  shepherd  from  Thrace  —  near  Adrianople. 
But  they  are  all  country  people.  You  ought  to  have 
some  city  Turks  —  French  clothes  and  Stambouli 
tarbooshes  —  flat-topped  fezzes  like  Ali  Zaky  Bey 
wears.  And  there  ought  to  be  some  beggars  —  the  old 
women  selling  sweets.  The  Turkish  children  are 
fine.  But  there  should  be  more  of  them  with  their 
fathers.  In  the  East  you  see  men  with  their  children 
much  more  than  you  do  here." 

"Anything  else?  " 

"  No,  nothing !  It  really  is  wonderful."  He 
glanced  up  at  her,  but  looked  away  shyly  as  he  caught 
her  eye.  "  Really,  it  is  so  much  better  than  I  ex- 
pected. So  much  nearer  right  than  I  thought  any  one 
could  do  who  had  not  been  there.  I  know  the  place 
so  well  and  I  see  so  little  that  is  wrong.  Only  the 
mosque,  you  must  change  that;  but  no  one  would 
notice  the  boats." 

"  I'm  glad  you  think  it's  good.  That  story-teller 
gave  me  an  idea  for  another  picture.  Could  I  have 
the  children  in  Morocco  —  listening  to  a  story-teller?  " 

"  Of  course.  Yes !  The  Aid  el-Kebir  at  Marakesh. 
I  have  some  photographs  which  would  help  you.     It  is 


THE  CALL  153 

the  children's  feast  —  to  commemorate  Abraham's 
sacrifice.  At  the  last  moment,  you  know,  God  told 
him  to  kill  a  sheep  instead  of  his  son.  All  good  Mus- 
lims kill  a  sheep  and  buy  new  clothes  for  the  children. 
In  the  great  square  in  Marakesh  there  are  merry-go- 
rounds  and  shadow  shows,  snake  charmers,  jugglers, 
and  of  course  story-tellers  —  all  for  the  children. " 

Helen,  coming  in  at  this  moment,  took  in  the  sit- 
uation at  a  glance.  Of  course  a  scholar,  like  Mr. 
Lane,  could  not  be  interested  in  pictures  for  children. 

In. regard  to  Eunice's  work,  Helen  had  two  distinct 
points  of  view.  To  strangers,  she  always  spoke  of 
it  highly.  In  spite  of  pitiful  ill  health,  Eunice  was 
earning  her  living.  So  many  strong,  perfectly 
healthy  women  did  not  do  as  much.  She  had  won 
her  economic  independence  and  deserved  the  respect 
of  all  feminists. 

However  to  her  intimate  friends  Helen  regretted 
that  Eunice  was  not  capable  of  some  really  useful 
work.  It  must  be  very  painful  to  depend  for  one's 
living  on  such  a  trivial,  unimportant  occupation. 
Frank  thought,  and  frequently  said,  that  Helen  under- 
estimated the  value  of  Eunice's  work.  Helen  indig- 
nantly denied  the  charge;  she  maintained  that  she 
gave  Eunice  her  due  regard.  Like  every  modern 
woman  she  felt  it  was  her  duty  to  be  self-supporting. 
That  she  was  not  strong,  of  course,  made  it  hard. 
Hut  if  she  were  strong  she  would  undertake  harder, 
more  useful  work.  She  insisted  that  Frank's  atti- 
tude was  due  to  old-fashioned  gallantry.  "  The  fact 
that  she's  a  woman  does  not  raise  nor  lower  the  value 
of  her  contribution  to  society,  does  not  alter  it  in  the 


154  THE  STRANGER 

least.  I'm  immensely  proud  of  the  brave  fight  she 
is  making  against  appalling  handicaps,  but  that  is  no 
reason  to  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  her  work  is 
ephemeral  to  a  degree.  A  mere  fad.  It  will  be  ut- 
terly forgotten  in  a  few  years.  Anyhow/'  Helen 
would  end  the  argument,  "  Eunice  doesn't  agree  with 
you.  She  doesn't  think  she's  anything  extraordinary. 
You  never  hear  her  talking  about  her  drawings,  as  if 
she  thought  it  was  wonderful."  She  was  decidedly 
surprised  to  find  Eunice  showing  her  work  to  Lane. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  happened  to  come  to-day,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  all  tied  up  with  work.  I  have  to  make  a  speech 
to-night  to  a  woman's  club  —  out  in  the  Jersey  Hinter- 
land. It's  so  far,  I  must  go  to  dinner  there  with  the 
lady  president.  I'll  have  to  dash  away  in  a  minute 
to  dress  —  can't  even  stop  for  tea.  I  hate  speaking 
to  suburban  clubwomen.     It's  sure  to  be  stupid." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  speak  about?  "  Lane  asked. 

The  words  were  no  sooner  out  of  his  mouth  than 
he  flushed  hotly.  Of  course  he  should  have  said, 
"  I  am  sure  it  will  not  be  stupid,  if  you  are  the  speak- 
er." But,  as  it  did  not  occur  to  Helen  that  her  part 
in  the  performance  would  be  uninteresting,  she  was 
not  touched  by  his  faux  pas.  She  wondered  why  he 
blushed.  But  Eunice  knew  and  it  amused  her  so  that 
she  sought  shelter  behind  her  drawings  to  hide  her 
smile. 

"  Efficiency,"  Helen  replied  to  his  question. 

"  Efficiency?  "  he  echoed  blankly.  "  Efficiency  for 
what?  " 

"  Why,  efficiency ;  efficiency  in  general.  That's  the 
gospel  for  the  woman  of  to-day.     We're  asking  men  to 


THE  CALL  156 

give  us  the  vote  —  and  much  more  —  to  let  us  take  a 
real  share  in  the  life  of  society,  in  its  business,  its 
industry,  its  politics  —  in  everything.  We  cannot 
expect  them  to  trust  us  with  these  responsibilities  un- 
til we  demonstrate  that  we  can  meet  them  efficiently. 
Don't  you  think  that '  Efficiency  '  is  a  good  battle  cry 
for  women  ?  " 

Lane  really  wanted  to  understand  Helen  and  her 
point  of  view.     But  he  did  not. 

"  I  wish  I  could  hear  your  speech,"  he  said.  "  The 
subject  interests  me.  I  hear  the  word  so  often  here 
in  America  —  almost  as  if  it  were  a  religious  doc- 
trine. You  call  it  a  gospel  for  women.  I  can  under- 
stand efficiency  in  some  given  direction  —  efficiency 
in  business  or  government  —  an  efficient  soldier  or  an 
efficient  mother.  But  efficiency  by  itself?  You 
would  not  like  efficiency  in  crime  —  in  murder  or 
theft." 

It  was  impossible  for  Helen  to  admit  quickly  and 
suddenly  that  she  was  wrong.  Her  first  reflex  to  any 
opposition,  no  matter  how  plausible  it  might  sound, 
was  to  argue  against  it.  Her  mind  worked  that  way. 
It  took  her  considerable  time  to  revise  her  opinions. 
It  was  never  a  facile  process. 

"  I'm  not  talking  to  murderers  and  thieves,"  she 
said  sharply,  "  but  to  people  with  good  intentions. 
That's  the  trouble  with  them.  They  have  nothing 
but  good  intentions.  They  don't  know  how  to  do  the 
things  they  want  to  get  done.     They're  inefficient." 

"  If  people  want  things  hard  enough  do  they  not 
just  naturally  learn  how  to  get  them?"  he  asked. 
"  Most  people  are  easily  contented  —  their  desires  are 


150  THE  STRANGER 

feeble  —  they  do  not  care  so  very  much  for  anything. 
They  would  rather  go  without  than  take  the  trouble 
to  get.     At  least,  so  it  seems  to  me. 

"  I  think  that  what  one  wants,  and  the  ardor  and 
determination  with  which  one  wants  it,  is  of  more  im- 
portance than  one's  skill  or  efficiency  in  getting.  If 
the  will  is  there,  the  skill  will  come.  You  have  the 
proverbs :  i  Necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention,' 
1  Where  there's  a  will,  there's  a  way.'  It  seems  to  me 
that  intentions  —  aspirations  are  more  important 
than  methods." 

"I'm  sorry,"  Helen  said,  "I  must  run  and  get 
dressed  or  I'll  miss  my  train.  But  I  want  to  argue 
this  out  with  you  some  time." 

In  all  his  encounters  with  Helen,  Lane  felt  that 
they  were  at  cross-purposes.  He  did  his  best  to  meet 
her  on  some  common  ground,  but  each  time  he  felt 
a  greater  distance  between  them.  It  distressed  him. 
He  felt  so  ill  at  ease  that  he  started  to  leave. 

u  Oh,  please,  sit  down  again,"  Eunice  said. 
"  Jenny  has  made  some  tea.  If  you  ring  that  bell, 
she'll  bring  it." 

He  did  as  directed  and  then  came  close  to  her. 

"  Jenny  is  the  black  woman?  Speak  to  her,  please, 
make  her  talk.     I  like  to  hear  her." 

Jenny  came  in  with  the  tea  tray  and  Eunice,  ask- 
ing some  household  question,  held  her  talking  a  few 
minutes. 

"  It  is  very  interesting,"  he  said  when  she  had 
gone  back  to  the  kitchen.  "  Much  the  way  black  folks 
speak  Arabic.  The  '  l's  '  and  the  '  r's '  are  just  the 
same.     Where  was  she  born?  " 


THE  CALL  157 

"  Jamaica.     In  the  West  Indies." 

"  There  must  be  many  negroes  there.  It  is  more 
black  folks'  talk  than  your  American  negroes  —  they 
try  so  hard  to  speak  like  white  people." 

.While  she  was  pouring  the  tea,  Eunice  made  him 
talk  about  his  specialty.  What  he  had  said  about 
her  eyes  and  his  ears  was  very  true.  She  saw  that 
tones  and  inflections  and  accents  were  to  him  what 
color  and  line  and  light  were  to  her.  She  remem- 
bered, without  any  effort,  how  Holbein  had  drawn 
Erasmus'  nose.  In  the  same  way  his  mind  treasured 
the  peculiarities  of  people's  speech. 

He  was  explaining  to  her  the  tongue-clicking  sounds 
of  some  African  tribes,  when  Helen  returned  from  her 
room,  booted  and  spurred  for  her  crusade  on  behalf  of 
efficiency.  For  the  first  time,  Lane  realized  that  she 
was  what  most  pepole  would  call  good  to  look  at  — 
a  magnificent  woman.  But  somehow  he  liked  her  less 
for  this  discovery.  Her  gown  was  a  resplendent  af- 
fair of  black  and  jet.  The  way  it  emphasized  the 
whiteness  of  her  bare  shoulders  startled  him.  In  the 
months  he  had  spent  in  Christian  lands,  he  had  gotten 
over  his  Oriental  embarrassment  at  the  sight  of  un- 
veiled women,  just  as  explorers  in  equatorial  Africa 
fail,  after  a  few  days,  to  take  note  of  nudity.  At  the 
theater  he  had  become  accustomed  to  decollete  —  at 
long  range.  Helen's  dress  was  not  cut  low,  but  the 
glaring  contrast  of  black  silk  and  white  flesh  troubled 
him.  And  she  was  going  to  stand  up  in  public  like 
this! 

"  I  saw  you  on  the  street  yesterday,"  she  said, 
blissfully   unconscious  of   his   criticism,    "but   you 


158  THE  STRANGER 

were    engrossed    in    a    book    and    did    not    notice 
me." 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said.  He  had  jumped  up  when 
she  entered  the  room.     "  Where  was  it?  " 

"  If  you  don't  mind  my  scolding  you  a  little  " — 
this  with  a  smile  she  thought  motherly  — "  I'll  tell 
you.  You  were  having  your  shoes  shined  in  a  chair 
outside  of  one  of  the  most  disreputable  saloons  on 
Broadway." 

"  Yes !  " —  his  eyes  opened  in  surprise  — "  I  remem- 
ber.    Was  it  wrong?  " 

"  Well,  gentlemen  don't  generally  have  their  shoes 
shined  in  such  a  place." 

"  I  had  just  stepped  into  a  mud  puddle.  I  was 
going  to  a  private  house  —  where  there  are  very  fine 
rugs.  I  had  to  have  my  shoes  cleaned.  I  might  have 
gone  inside  —  there  is  a  chair  inside  —  but  I  do  not 
drink." 

"  Oh,  no !  That  would  have  been  worse.  You  don't 
want  to  be  seen  coming  out  of  a  place  like  that  —  it 
is  most  disreputable.  You  ought  to  have  gone  into 
a  hotel." 

"  But  it  is  just  the  same  in  a  hotel.  The  shoe- 
cleaning  chairs  are  in  the  bar.  Is  it  more  respect- 
able if  you  have  to  pay  a  fancy  price  for  your  drinks?  " 

"  Mr.  Lane,"  Eunice  intervened,  "  if  you're  not  busy 
to-night,  can't  you  have  dinner  with  me  here?  It 
isn't  very  gay  for  me,  when  Helen  has  to  go  out.  I 
think  Mr.  Mathews  is  coming  in  later  and  perhaps 
Mr.  McGee.  Take  Helen  over  to  Hoboken  and  put 
her  on  the  train  —  and  come  back  here  at  seven." 

"  Why,  yes,"  that  would  be  fine,"  Helen  agreed 


THE  CALL  159 

warmly.  "We  can  talk  on  the  way  across  and  then 
you'll  come  back  and  keep  Eunice  company." 

"  I  will  be  glad  to  take  you  to  the  train,  Miss  Cash. 
And  I  would  like  to  come  back,"  he  said,  half  fright- 
ened, half  wistful.  "  But  I  am  not  quite  sure,  t 
will  have  to  go  to  my  room  first.  I  may  find  an  en- 
gagement which  I  cannot  break.     I  will  telephone." 

"Never  mind  telephoning,"  Eunice  said.  "  Come, 
if  you  can.  There'll  be  a  plate  for  you.  I  won't 
wait.     Don't  bother  to  dress." 

When  they  had  gone,  Eunice  told  Jenny  to  lay 
dinner  for  two. 

"  It's  just  possible,"  she  said,  "  that  Mr.  Lane  may 
come  back." 

Then  she  stretched  out  on  her  couch,  and  pulled  the 
shawl  up  over  her  feet.  She  was  overcome  by  a  de- 
pressing lassitude.  Why  pretend  to  expect  him?  He 
would  not  come  back.  Why  should  he?  Helen,  the 
talented,  the  able,  the  forthfaring,  had  carried  him 
off.  Helen,  the  strong  the  beautiful  —  the  healthy. 
She  repeated  to  herself  all  her  friend's  wonder- 
ful attributes  and  was  surprised  to  find  her- 
self doing  so,  almost  as  if  it  were  necessary  to  seek 
excuses  for  her.  It  was  childish,  of  course,  to  resent 
Helen's  taking  him  off.  She  herself  had  suggested 
it. 

She  wondered  what  they  were  talking  about.  How 
would  it  seem  to  stride  along  beside  a  man,  feeling 
every  bit  as  strong  as  he?  She  wondered  what  they 
thought  of  each  other.  He  would  fall  in  love  with 
Helen,  of  course.  Men  did.  He  would  not  right 
away.     He  was  sensitive  and  Helen's  brusqueness  dis- 


160  THE  STRANGER 

turbed  him.  It  was  easy  to  see  that.  But  he  would 
soon  get  used  to  it  and  discover,  back  of  her  abrupt 
manner,  the  really  fine  woman  whom  her  friends 
knew.  And  then  —  well  —  perhaps  a  few  crumbs 
would  fall  to  her  share.  He  would  be  good  to  her, 
just  as  Pete  and  Win  were. 

Suddenly  the  unwelcome  idea  flashed  into  her  mind 
that  perhaps  they  were  talking  about  her.  Helen 
would  be  excusing  her,  asking  him  to  make  allowance 
for  her  weakness,  to  be  kind  to  her  —  appealing  to 
his  pity.  It  made  her  hot  and  angry  all  over.  She 
had  an  impulse  to  tell  Jenny  to  remove  the  extra 
plate  and  to  tell  Mr.  Lane,  if  he  came,  that  she  had 
gone  to  the  opera. 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  with  abrupt  and  startling 
clearness,  she  realized  that  she  did  not  care  why  he 
came  —  just  so  he  did  come. 

Yes,  she  wanted  to  see  him,  to  hear  his  voice  again 
more  than  she  had  ever  wanted  anything.  If  an  ap- 
peal to  pity  were  necessary  to  persuade  him  to  come, 
she  hoped  Helen  would  make  it. 

She  lay  quite  still  for  a  long  time,  thinking  about 
this,  trying  to  realize  what  it  meant  to  her.  It  daz- 
zled and  dizzied  her.  She  could  not  decide  whether 
she  ought  to  be  glad  or  sad  that  things  were  so.  At 
least  she  was  sure  of  one  thing.  It  was  sad  there 
could  be  any  doubt.  A  woman  ought  to  be  made  glad 
by  love. 

In  these  years  of  close  friendship  with  Helen, 
Eunice  had  become  familiar  with  most  of  our  modern 
thought  on  social  problems.  She  had  read  all  the 
textbooks  of  the  advance  guard.     The  mystery  of  the 


THE  CALL  161 

death  sentence  against  her  own  family  had  given  her 
an  especial  interest  in  eugenics.  She  knew  as  much 
about  the  matter  of  heredity  as  any  one.  And  what 
we  know  of  this  subject,  while  very  little,  is  impres- 
sive. The  judgment  of  the  world  in  which  she  lived, 
a  judgment  in  which  she  fully  concurred,  was  explicit. 
She  ought  not  to  be  a  mother.  So  thoroughly  had 
she  accepted  this  verdict  that  the  bare  idea  of  her  be- 
ing in  love  seemed  to  her  indecent.  Such  things  were 
not  for  her. 

But,  although  she  knew  that  she  must  fold  this 
love  away  in  her  heart,  never  let  any  one  know  of  it 
—  least  of  all  Lane  —  she  decided  at  last  that  she 
was  glad. 

Yes,  however  piteous  and  futile  it  might  be,  she 
was  glad.  Glad  to  know  there  was  enough  vitality 
in  her  pallid  blood  to  thrill  to  this  great  impulse  of 
health. 

Yes!  She  was  glad.  All  the  secret  and  hitherto 
silent  voices  within  her  sang  an  anthem  of  joy.  And 
now  and  then  they  stopped  their  song  to  pray  —  to 
pray  that  he  should  come. 


CHAPTER  XI 


THE  DINNER 


There  was  uneasy  confusion  in  the  Stranger's  mind 
as  he  stopped  before  the  house  where  he  knew  Eunice 
was  waiting  for  him.  He  pulled  out  his  watch.  It 
was  ten  minutes  to  seven.  This  gave  him  excuse  for 
further  hesitation.  He  would  have  time  to  walk  to 
the  Square  and  back. 

He  had  been  struggling  with  indecision  for  an  hour, 
ever  since  he  had  put  Helen  on  the  train,  and  so  had 
been  able  to  spare  attention  for  the  evening's  prob- 
lem. He  was  surprised  at  himself.  He  could  not 
explain  his  hesitancy.  New,  strange  countries,  the 
way  their  inhabitants  lived  and  thought  about  life, 
fascinated  him.  Getting  acquainted  with  people  was 
his  favorite  occupation.  Dining  alone  with  a  woman 
would  be  an  entirely  new  experience.  It  promised 
many  new  insights.  And  yet,  for  some  inexplicable 
reason,  the  prospect  frightened  him  and  made  him 
hesitate. 

As  far  back  as  he  could  remember  he  had  been  a 
nomad,  a  wanderer,  an  explorer.  Always  his  interest 
had  been  human,  not  geographic.  It  was  more 
natural  for  him  to  date  his  memories  by  "  The  year  I 
met  so  and  so,"  than  by  "  The  year  I  was  in  such  and 
such  a  place." 

He  had  a  queer  pride  in  his  ability  to  pick  up  the 

162 


THE  DINNER  163 

language  of  strange  peoples,  to  learn  their  customs 
and  tricks  of  manner.  It  pleased  him  to  know  that 
he  could  borrow  Ali  Zaky  Bey's  stambouli  tarboosh 
and  pass  from  Bremen  to  Bagdad  as  a  Young  Turk. 
He  could  let  his  beard  grow  and  dye  it  with  henna 
and  travel  from  Bokhara  to  Bombay,  reciting  the 
poetry  of  Sa'adi  and  Hafiz  and  no  one  would  doubt 
that  he  was  not  Persian  born.  He  could  put  on  a 
black^gaberdine  and  journey  from  synagogue  to  syna- 
gogue across  North  Africa  as  a  Jewish  rabbi.  With 
a  little  stain  rubbed  into  his  skin  and  a  Coptic  cos- 
tume, he  might  have  held  a  clerkship  in  the  Anglo- 
JEgyptian  Civil  Service. 

Now  he  was  spending  much  of  his  time  in  Chinese 
laundries  and  chop  suey  restaurants,  hours  on  end  in 
Pell  and  Doyer  Streets,  watching  the  little  character- 
istic gestures,  studying  the  forms  of  greetings  and 
partings,  listening  to  the  sounds  of  the  Celestial  Em- 
pire. Already  he  could  distinguish  one  dialect  from 
another.  He  had  learned  to  read  a  few  hundred  word 
signs.  There  was  an  alluring  project  taking  shape 
in  his  mind  of  going  home  by  way  of  China.  Strange 
people,  strange  tongues,  above  all  unfamiliar  attitudes 
toward  life,  drew  him  like  a  magnet. 

He  did  not  see  any  utility  in  this ;  it  simply  charmed 
him.  The  literatures  of  the  countries  he  visited  in- 
terested him  in  so  far  as  they  helped  him  to  under- 
stand the  new  community.  He  read  a  great  deal, 
but  he  would  not  have  called  himself  a  student  of  the 
literature.  He  loved  passionately  the  poetry  of  his 
own  people,  but  his  attitude  toward  it  was  not  at  all 
"  8cientific.,,     It  gave  him  pleasure. 


164  THE  STRANGER 

To  be  sure,  some  instinct  of  truth  in  him  was  of- 
fended when  he  read  false  statements  about  it,  wrong 
conclusions  and  uncomprehending  attempts  at  inter- 
pretation. Such  things  vexed  him,  and  several  years 
before  he  had  gone  to  England  to  correct  some  such 
mistakes.  But  this  had  been  only  half  his  motive  for 
that  voyage.  He  had  wanted  to  explore  Christendom. 
In  the  same  mixed  mood  he  had  come  to  America. 
The  German's  grammar  had  been  entirely  stupid  and 
it  would  be  amusing  to  write  a  book  about  the  Shilah, 
which  he  had  learned  at  the  breast  of  his  foster 
mother.  But  more  attractive  had  been  the  chance 
to  see  the  strange  people  of  his  parents'  land.  The 
same  curiosity  which  was  now  drawing  him  towards 
China  had  brought  him  to  America.  It  had  held  him 
here  longer  than  he  had  expected. 

America  had  baffled  him.  He  had  not  found  it  easy 
to  get  acquainted.  For  several  months  he  had  lived 
in  Cambridge.  Professor  Petroff,  also  an  exile,  was 
the  only  person  with  whom  he  had  become  familiar. 
He  had  felt  rebuffed  by  the  Americans  of  better  birth 
and  breeding.  Nowhere  else  in  his  wanderings  had 
he  found  himself  so  completely  a  stranger.  Most  of 
his  intercourse  had  been  with  other  immigrants,  with 
Syrians,  Greeks,  and  Armenians.  Beyond  a  few 
amateur  Orientalists  and  some  college  professors  he 
had  made  no  acquaintances  among  the  Americans  of 
New  York. 

So,  when  a  month  before  Win  Mathews  had  shown 
a  disposition  to  notice  his  existence,  he  had  been 
pleased.  He  had  gone  out  more  than  halfway  to 
meet  this  adventure  of  a  new  acquaintance.     When 


THE  DINNER  165 

Win  had  proposed  to  introduce  him  to  others,  to 
American  women,  he  had  been  more  than  pleased  — 
interested  —  thrilled,  as  an  entomologist  is  with  a 
new  species  of  bugs  to  study. 

He  had  not  expected  that  Win  and  his  friends 
would  mean  more  to  him  than  the  casual  acquaint- 
ances he  had  picked  up  in  market  places  and  caravan- 
saries in  other  ends  of  the  earth.  The  idea  of  per- 
manent relationships  had  not  developed  in  his  wander- 
ing life.  His  soul  had  learned  from  his  body  to  be 
here  to-day  and  far  away  to-morrow. 

But  this  pale  woman,  Eunice,  had  opened  up  a  new 
vista  to  him.  Somehow  there  was  a  suggestion  about 
her,  a  vague  promise,  of  closer  and  more  intimate 
communion  than  he  had  ever  known.  He  was  con- 
scious of  a  mystic  kinship,  as  though  she  were  one  of 
his  own  people.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt 
lonely. 

He  had  never  had  an  intimate  friend.  He  had  been 
the  friend  of  all  the  world.  But  she  was  different. 
In  her  deep,  quiet  eyes  he  saw  something  more  than 
interesting,  something  which  stirred  more  than 
curiosity  —  a  new  value  to  life.  It  was  something, 
not  to  study  and  discard,  but  to  treasure  and  hold 
tight. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  the  poignant  pleasure  which  an 
evening  with  her  offered,  he  hesitated.  For  one  needs 
practice  in  friendship.  The  dwellers  in  tents  always 
hesitate  on  the  threshold  of  a  house.  His  soul,  sud- 
denly yearning  for  the  comforts  of  permanency  but 
used  only  to  the  freedom  of  the  casual,  trembled  and 
held  back. 


166  THE  STRANGER 

In  his  walk  back  from  the  ferry,  after  having 
parted  from  Helen,  he  had  stopped  a  dozen  times  be- 
fore drug  stores,  almost  resolved  to  telephone  that 
he  could  not  come  to  dinner.  He  might  have  done  so, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  that  half  hour  with  Helen. 

She  had  not  discussed  her  gospel  of  efficiency  with 
him.  She  wanted  to  think  over  his  criticism  a  while 
before  she  returned  to  the  attack.  She  had  utilized 
the  opportunity  in  the  process  she  had  described  to 
Eunice  as  "  taking  him  in  hand."  And  her  motto 
was :  "  Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  effi- 
ciently." 

She  had  done  most  of  the  talking  and  the  subject 
of  her  discourse  had  been,  "  The  Disadvantage  of 
Queerness." 

"A  person  who  wants  to  get  on  in  the  world,  to 
accomplish  anything,"  she  said,  "  simply  can't  afford 
to  be  a  freak.  Now,  my  life  is,  fundamentally,  un- 
conventional. I'm  not  at  all  satisfied  with  things  as 
they  are,  nor  the  ordinary  ways  of  life.  I'm  doing  my 
best  to  change  them.  The  conventional  way  —  the 
way  people  have  always  done  it  —  is  sure  to  be  wrong. 

"  In  the  big  issues,  the  matters  that  count,  I'm  en- 
tirely unconventional.  I  make  up  my  mind  that  some- 
thing ought  to  be  done  and  I  go  right  ahead  and  do 
it  —  without  any  worry  about  what  people  will  think 
or  say.  But  in  the  little  issues  that  don't  matter  — 
dress,  for  instance,  I'm  scrupulously  conventional. 
I'm  going  to  speak  to  suburban  clubwomen  to-night 
—  the  most  sheeplike,  conventional  people  on  earth. 
Well,  they're  expecting  a  short-haired,  uncorseted 
woman  in  ugly  horn  glasses.     They'll  be  surprised  to 


THE  DINNER  167 

see  me  quite  as  well  dressed  as  they  are.  They'll 
listen  to  what  I  say  and  believe  it.  If  I  wore  a  sailor 
blouse,  I'd  be  more  comfortable;  but  I  could  use 
exactly  the  same  words  —  with  no  effect. 

"  Of  course  it  doesn't  matter  ethically  what  kind  of 
clothes  I  wear,  nor  where  you  have  your  shoes  shined. 
But  in  other  ways  it  matters  a  great  deal.  It  doesn't 
matter  ethically  what  kind  of  collars  a  man  wears. 
But  most  men  observe  the  prevailing  fashion.  It's 
queer  not  to.  And  here  in  New  York  that  doesn't  pay. 
Once  you  get  the  reputation  of  being  a  freak  you're 
*  queered.'  That's  slang,  but  it's  true  slang.  It 
means  that  you've  lost  your  audience  —  your  in- 
fluence. It  means  that  you  are  unconsidered.  Noth- 
ing you  do  or  say  will  be  taken  seriously.  It's  about 
the  worst  thing  that  can  happen  to  a  person." 

This  process  of  being  "  taken  in  hand  "  had  been 
like  the  sandpapering  of  a  blister  to  Lane,  like  a 
plague  of  biting  flies.  He  could  not  have  explained 
why  it  hurt  him  so  much.  He  did  not  think  it  imper- 
tinent. He  was  glad  to  have  his  attention  called  to 
such  matters  as  where  it  is  proper  to  have  one's  shoes 
shined.  And  the  collars  —  he  blushed  with  shame 
about  that.  He  ought  to  have  noticed.  He  had  a 
peculiar  pride  in  his  ability  to  make  up  for  a  part. 
He  had  been  inexcusably  careless  in  this. 

He  had  bought  those  offending  collars  from  a 
Spanish  Jew  in  Tangier,  when  he  had  come  down  from 
the  interior  with  Petroff  and  had  outfitted  for  his 
explorations  in  America.  There  were  so  many  varie- 
ties of  collars!  And  besides,  all  collars  were  so  un- 
comfortable and  absurd!    He  had  not  thought  there 


168  THE  STRANGER 

was  a  prevailing  style.     He  would  put  his  mind  to  it. 

He  knew  that  he  thought  these  details  of  custom 
and  dress  more  important  than  Helen  did.  It  was  not 
the  content  but  the  tone  of  her  discourse  that  hurt. 
What  she  was  criticizing  was  his  attitude  of  mind. 
The  flaws  in  his  get-up  were  only  symptoms.  He 
hardly  stopped  to  analyze  why  her  judgment  should 
touch  and  hurt  him  personally.  But  the  constraint 
he  had  always  felt  in  her  presence  had  become  pain- 
fully acute.  He  wanted  to  like  her,  but  he  could  not. 
It  made  him  feel  defeated  and  sore. 

In  a  way  her  verdict  seemed  to  him  the  verdict 
of  America.  He  was,  in  her  own  phrase,  "  unconsid- 
ered." In  the  rush  and  turmoil  and  haste  of  his 
father's  land,  he  felt  himself  peculiarly  unimportant. 
At  most  a  few  dozen  people  valued  his  scholarship  — 
the  one  thing  about  himself  which  he  valued  least. 
In  a  manner  quite  new  to  his  experience,  he  felt  him- 
self of  no  account.  In  the  busy  marts  of  the  East,  in 
the  bazaars  of  Stamboul,  Bagdad,  Calcutta,  he  had 
not  felt  any  such  oppressive  isolation  from  human- 
kind, such  loneliness. 

And  so,  in  spite  of  his  strange  hesitancy,  he  re- 
turned to  Eunice's  door.  She  would  comprehend  him 
and  approve.  If  his  feelings  had  needed  salve  less, 
he  would  have  been  afraid  to  seek  it.  But  Helen  had 
bruised  him  so  that  he  sought  comfort,  regardless  of 
consequences. 

More  definitely  than  ever  before  he  had  the  feeling 
of  coming  home,  as  Jenny  let  him  into  the  Flat.  And, 
also  for  the  first  time,  as  he  entered  the  library,  he 


THE  DINNER  169 

looked  Eunice  in  the  face.  It  was  impossible  not  to. 
Her  face  was  radiant. 

There  was  no  more  any  hesitancy  for  him.  He  knew 
why  he  had  come,  what  was  happening  to  him.  But 
he  felt  no  haste.  It  would  have  seemed  to  him  crass 
and  vulgar  to  hurry  in  so  solemn  a  matter.  The  great 
gods  are  not  pressed  for  time. 

He  took  up  the  conversation,  as  they  sat  down  to 
dinner,  where  Helen  had  interrupted  it ;  the  debatable 
question  of  the  relations  between  the  Semitic  lan- 
guages and  the  Hamitic  speech  of  the  blacks.  Eunice 
had  never  heard  of  the  subject  before,  but  he  made  it 
interesting.  With  the  salad,  they  switched  back  to 
the  Children's  Fete  at  Marakesh  —  the  Aid  el-Kebir 
—  and  that  brought  them,  with  the  dessert,  to  the  art 
of  story-telling,  the  tale  Sidi  Bobker  had  told  and  the 
Oriental  attitude  toward  Love  and  God. 

"  Max  Muller,"  he  said,  "  a  German  scholar,  who 
was  familiar  with  your  literature  and  with  much  of 
ours,  made  a  nasty  epigram  to  the  effect  that  the  two 
basic  preoccupations  of  mankind  are  obscenity  and 
superstition.  He  meant  Sex  and  Religion.  We 
would  say  Love  and  God  —  and  then  we  would  add, 
they  are  one  and  the  same. 

"  I  think  the  finest  thing  about  Mohammedanism  is 
that  its  followers  —  some  of  them  —  have  developed 
the  highest  mysticism  without  asceticism.  All  your 
deeply  religious  people  have  turned  away  from  life. 
The  World,  the  Flesh,  and  the  Devil!  That  is  a 
Christian  Trinity  which  is  harder  for  us  to  under- 
stand than  the  other.  In  your  religious  literature  it 
is  a  thing  of  shame  —  this  wonderful  world,  which 


170  THE  STRANGER 

God  has  given  us.  Why  should  we  hate  His  gift?  I 
think  God  must  have  loved  it ;  He  made  it  so  carefully, 
so  beautifully.  And  why  should  we  be  ashamed  of 
our  flesh?  He  was  not  ashamed  to  create  it  —  after 
His  own  image. 

"  The  Christian  Church  teaches  that  we  should  love 
our  fellow  men.  Of  course.  All  religions  have 
taught  that.  But  why  should  we  not  also  love  the 
dumb  animals,  the  perfume  and  color  of  flowers, 
precious  stones  and  nature?  Mohammed  has  some 
wonderful  verses  in  the  Koran  about  his  favorite 
horse,  about  the  camel  which  carried  him  in  safety 
from  his  enemies.  We  are  taught,  as  little  children, 
that  our  Prophet  loved  '  the  cool  sun  of  dawn '  and 
'  the  blaze  of  noon  '  and  '  the  lightning  when  it  flashed  ' 
and  rivers  and  wells  of  cool  water,  the  shade  of  the 
date  palms  and  the  beauty  and  wonder  of  all  live 
things  and  the  face  of  the  Beloved  —  all  the  rich 
bounty  of  our  Most  Merciful  God.  The  saints  of  our 
history  have  loved  such  things  passionately.  I  do  not 
think  that  they  could  have  loved  God  so  well  if  they 
had  hated  His  gifts  —  as  the  fathers  of  your  church 
have  taught.  Should  we  blame  the  grapes,  because 
men  have  discovered  how  to  make  wine  and  drunken- 
ness? The  Christians  seem  always  to  be  arguing  that 
way. 

"  Once  I  read  a  Latin  book  —  St.  Jerome.  He  talks 
so  much  of  original  sin  —  all  little  children  '  con- 
ceived in  sin.'  It  seems  a  very  horrible  idea  to  me. 
I  have  tried  hard  to  understand,  but  I  have  not  suc- 
ceeded. I  can  understand  fearing  a  God  who  had 
put  us  in  a  world,  given  us  a  Flesh,  which  we  must 


THE  DINNER  171 

hate  and  shun  —  but  I  could  not  love  such  a  God." 

Conversation  hung  for  a  moment,  after  Jenny  had 
brought  them  coffee  in  the  library.  Lane  stirred  un- 
easily in  his  chair,  took  out  a  cigarette,  and  looked 
once  more  directly  into  Eunice's  face.  His  forehead 
was  wrinkled. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  she  said. 

"  I  would  like  to  ask  you  a  question,  but  perhaps 
it  is  too  personal." 

"  Ask  it,"  she  smiled  reassuringly.  "  I  won't  an- 
swer if  I  don't  want  to." 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  about  you.  It  is  about  me.  Do  you 
think  I  am  queer?  " 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Well,  Miss  Cash  says  I  am  queer.  I  do  not  mean 
the  collar,  nor  having  my  shoes  shined  on  the  side- 
walk. She  means  more  than  that.  Do  you,  too,  think 
I  am  queer?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  after  long  consideration.  "  I  sup- 
pose you  are  —  to  most  people.  But  you  seem  just 
the  opposite  to  me  —  extraordinarily,  queerly,  the  op- 
posite. You  see  I've  always  been  sick  " —  deep  within 
her,  Eunice  felt  that  it  would  be  despicable  to  let  him 
have  the  slightest  misconception  on  this  point,  and, 
having  done  this  duty,  it  seemed  safe  to  be  quite  frank 
— "  and  of  course  my  life  has  been  different  from  most 
people's.  My  world  is  mostly  hearsay.  Being  so 
much  of  the  time  in  bed  I've  had  little  chance  for  ex- 
periences of  my  own.  And  I  often  feel  like  a  stranger 
among  real  people  —  they  seem  strange  to  me.  I 
know  the  words  they  use,  but  very  often  I'm  not  sure 
that  I  know  what  they  really  intend  by  what  they 


172  THE  STRANGER 

say.  It  changes  even  the  meaning  of  words  to  be 
sick,  as  I  have  been.  They  are  all  wonderfully  good 
to  me.  Helen  is  the  kindest  person  in  the  world  — 
so  are  the  men,  Win  and  Frank  and  Pete.  But  very 
often,  when  they  talk,  I  feel  out  of  it  —  a  stranger. 
But  somehow  it's  been  different  with  you.  I  haven't 
felt  that  way.  It's  as  though  we  were  near  of  kin  — 
no,  that's  not  it " — she  hesitated  a  minute  to  find  the 
exact  word  — "  it's  as  if  long  ago,  always,  we  had  been 
good  friends.  And  just  because  you  don't  seem  queer 
to  me,  I  suppose  you  are  to  other  people.  Sometimes 
they  tell  me  I'm  queer,  too." 

"  Then,  I  am  glad  to  be  queer." 

She  could  think  of  nothing  to  say.  No  more  could 
he.  He  smoked  in  silence.  There  were  so  many 
things  he  would  have  liked  to  say,  but  he  could  not 
find  the  words.  He  saw  clearly  what  the  Fates  were 
doing  to  them.  He  had  no  desire  to  resist.  But  the 
realization  of  love  is  a  strange  and  awesome  experi- 
ence to  any  one,  more  especially  to  one  like  him  whose 
life  had  always  been  so  unattached.  He  had  a  yearn- 
ing to  reach  out  and  touch  her.  But  this  seemed  too 
crude,  too  rude  and  daring,  in  the  face  of  the  Great 
Mystery.  Then  abruptly  he  felt  embarrassed.  Any- 
thing would  be  better  than  this  dazzling  silence. 

"  Do  the  men  also  think  I  am  queer? ' 

He  asked  it,  not  because  he  cared,  but  just  to  say 
something. 

"  Not  in  any  way  that  means  they  don't  like  you. 
Win  and  Lancaster  were  in  the  other  day  and  told  us 
what  you  had  told  them  —  I  hope  you  don't  mind  our 
talking  about  you." 


THE  DINNER  173 

"  Oh,  no.  I  am  glad  they  told  you.  I  do  not 
like  to  seem  mysterious.  And  Mr.  McGee  said  you  all 
thought  I  was.  It  seems  so  simple  to  me,  so  natural. 
I  do  not  know  why  I  like  languages  nor  why  I  wander 
about.  I  always  have.  I  have  been  here  in  New  York 
longer  than  usual  —  over  a  year  in  one  place !  I 
think  I  will  go  to  China  next.  They  are  interesting 
people.  It  is  a  very  difficult  language,  different  from 
any  I  ever  studied  before.  I  am  just  beginning  to 
understand  it  —  a  little." 

Eunice's  heart  sank  at  the  thought  of  his  going 
to  China.  But  she  was  in  a  mood  of  self-torture. 
She  had  no  right  to  ask  him  to  stay.  For  a  while 
she  let  him  talk  about  his  chop-suey  acquaintances 
and  of  the  things  he  had  learned  about  China- 
town. 

"  When  are  you  going?  " 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  know." 

Once  more  the  blanket  of  silence  fell  on  them  — 
suffocatingly.  A  cheering  thought  came  to  her.  It 
was  pleasant  to  think  that  the  men  she  knew  liked  this 
dear  friend  she  had  just  found. 

"You  needn't  worry  about  the  men,"  she  said. 
"  They  like  you  —  very  much." 

"  I  am  glad.  I  like  them.  I  have  seen  most  of  Mr. 
M  athews.  And  Mr.  Lockwood  —  I  cannot  tell  what  it 
is,  but  he  is  unhappy ;  I  think  I  would  like  him  best 
if  I  knew  him  well.  And  Professor  Lancaster.  He 
interests  me  very  much.  He  is  so  earnest  —  I  want 
to  know  him  better.  Do  you  think  he  would  like  it  — 
if  I  went  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed.    He's  keen  to  ask  you  about  Morocco. 


174  THE  STRANGER 

He's  writing  a  book  on  Ethnology.  But  he  thinks  you 
don't  like  him." 

"  Why  ?    Have  I  offended  him  ?  " 

"Well,  not  exactly.  But  he's  disappointed.  He 
says  you  snub  him." 

"Snub  him?    How?" 

"  Well,  you  see  he's  a  Socialist  and  very  much  in- 
terested in  Russia.  He  said  —  oh,  he  was  laughing 
about  it,  not  angry  —  he  said  he'd  asked  you  about 
Russia  twice  and  both  times  you'd  snubbed  him.  You 
rather  did  that  night  he  was  here." 

"  Why,  I  told  him  to  ask  Inslavsky." 

"  And  Inslavsky  told  him  to  ask  you." 

Lane's  perplexity  gave  place  to  amusement  and  he 
laughed  quietly. 

"  How  stupid !  What  a  mountain  in  a  molehill  — 
I  mean  what  a  tempest  in  a  teapot.  I  will  go  and 
tell  him.  But  Inslavsky  knows  so  much  more  about 
Russia  than  I.  It  was  only  a  few  months  I  was  there. 
I  was  only  a  youngster  —  and  it  was  all  very  foolish. 
I  am  a  little  ashamed  of  it. 

"  But  you  will  understand  " —  he  looked  up  at  her, 
surprised  at  his  own  certainty  that  she  would  under- 
stand. "  You  see  —  perhaps  they  told  you  —  my 
father  died  when  I  was  a  boy.  We  were  coming  back 
from  Mecca.  There  was  a  plague  in  the  town  —  it 
was  that  he  died  of.  Father  had  always  intended  to 
send  me  to  America  to  study  medicine.  And  when  he 
knew  he  was  going  to  die,  he  called  in  some  mission- 
ary doctors,  who  were  also  fighting  the  plague,  and 
asked  them  to  take  care  of  me.  They  said  they  would 
teach  me  to  be  a  Christian.     Father  said  he  did  not 


THE  DINNER  175 

think  that  mattered  much,  sb  long  as  I  grew  up  brave 
and  not  afraid  to  die.  He  was  not  afraid.  Those 
were  his  last  words,  and  of  course  I  remembered  them. 
I  was  only  a  little  boy,  and  I  thought  my  father  was 
the  most  wonderful  man  in  the  world  —  and  he 
wanted  me  to  be  a  doctor  and  a  brave  man.  After  I 
ran  away  from  Beirut  and  went  to  Robert  College,  I 
saw  I  could  not  make  a  good  doctor,  so  it  seemed  all 
the  more  important  for  me  to  be  the  other  half  of  what 
he  had  wanted.  He  had  said  that  being  brave  mat- 
tered most. 

"  I  thought  about  it  a  great  deal.  How  was  I  to 
know  —  there  in  college  —  whether  I  was  brave  or 
not?  There  was  no  war.  Perhaps  I  was  afraid  to 
die.  The  missionaries  talked  to  us  very  gloomily 
about  death  and  hell.  Perhaps  they  had  frightened 
me,  anyhow  I  was  not  sure.  I  felt  badly  about  not 
being  a  doctor  as  my  father  had  wanted,  so  it  seemed 
to  me  most  important  to  make  sure  I  was  brave  — 
or,  if  I  were  not,  to  learn  how  to  be. 

"  There  were  some  Armenian  boys  in  the  college 
from  the  Caucasus  and  they  used  to  tell  stories  about 
their  brave  men  — '  The  Brothers  of  the  Hills  ' —  who 
are  always  fighting  the  Russians.  One  of  the  boys 
was  named  David.  His  father  was  chief  of  a  band. 
I  knew  that  when  he  left  college  he  would  go  home 
to  fight.     He  was  older  than  I  —  almost  a  man. 

"  So  I  told  David  my  perplexity  —  how  I  wanted 
to  be  sure  I  was  brave.  Perhaps  an  American  boy 
would  not  understand  how  I  felt,  but  David  did,  any- 
body from  the  East  would.  He  asked  me  to  go  with 
him.     It  would  be  a  good  test,  he  said,  because  '  The 


176  THE  STRANGER 

Brothers  of  the  Hills '  have  to  be  brave.  So  the  day 
after  he  left  college,  I  slipped  away  and  joined 
him." 

"  How  old  were  you?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  exactly  how  old  I  am,  but  I  think 
I  was  about  sixteen.  And  after  I  was  in  the  moun- 
tains with  this  band  for  five  or  six  months,  I  went 
to  Russia " 

"  But  tell  me.  How  was  it?  You  found  you  were 
brave?  " 

"Well  —  not  very  —  not  exactly,"  he  said  judi- 
cially. "At  least  not  at  first.  I  was  very  much 
afraid  when  I  had  to  shoot  at  the  soldiers  —  the  first 
time.  But  of  course  I  would  not  tell  any  one  that 
I  was  frightened ;  I  pretended  to  be  brave  and  —  well 

—  very  quickly  one  gets  used  to  anything,  even  to  kill- 
ing people.     But  at  first  it  was  awful." 

It  was  a  very  long  time  since  he  had  thought  of 
that  great  test  of  his  boyhood,  so  many  things  had 
happened  since  to  overlay  the  memory.     But  suddenly 

—  there  in  this  very  civilized  apartment  —  it  all  came 
back  to  him  vividly.  He  wanted  to  talk  about  it,  to 
live  it  over  again  for  this  understanding  one. 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  tell  you  about  it?  "  he  asked, 
looking  up  at  her. 

"  Yes,  please,"  she  said,  with  an  eager  smile. 

He  got  up  from  his  chair  nervously  and  walked 
about  a  moment,  slowly  pulling  the  old  memory  out  of 
the  recesses  of  his  mind. 

"  It  was  all  so  long  ago,"  he  said  at  last,  "  that  it 
seems  like  a  '  once  upon  a  time '  story." 

She  had  curled  up  among  the  cushions  at  one  end 


THE  DINNER  177 

of  the  couch  and  he  sat  down  cross-legged  at  the  other. 

"  It  all  came  so  suddenly/'  he  began.  "  There  was 
no  time  to  prepare  myself.  No  easy  first  steps.  It 
came  all  at  once  —  bang ! 

"  All  across  the  Black  Sea  there  was  a  storm.  And 
I  was  sick.  I  am  not  a  good  sailor.  And  when  we 
got  to  Batum,  there  was  a  man  waiting  with  a  horse 
for  my  friend  David.  I  was  not  expected.  I  was  so 
sick  I  hardly  cared  whether  I  were  brave  or  not. 
But  somehow  David  arranged  for  another  horse  and 
we  set  off.  The  man  said  we  must  hurry.  After  two 
days'  very  hard  riding  we  reached  the  camp.  David's 
father  —  the  chief  —  was  not  glad  to  see  me.  He 
said  I  was  too  young.  He  was  very  angry  with  David 
for  having  brought  me.  They  were  just  setting  off  to 
rescue  some  friends  who  had  been  captured.  They 
did  not  trust  me  enough  to  leave  me  alone  in  their 
camp.  So  they  gave  me  a  rifle  and  took  me  with 
them. 

"  There  were  ten  men  and  we  two  boys.  Riding 
along,  I  listened  to  their  talk  and  found  out  what  it 
was  all  about.  Some  of  their  comrades  had  been  ar- 
rested —  about  twenty  of  them.  And  a  company  of 
Cossacks  was  going  to  take  them  across  the  mountains 
by  the  military  road  from  Tiflis  to  Vladikavkas. 
From  there  —  unless  we  rescued  them  —  they  would 
be  sent  to  the  mines  in  Siberia. 

"  All  night  long  and  most  of  the  next  day  we  rode 
through  the  mountains  up  and  up  toward  the  top  — 
wild  trails  which  only  the  hill  folk  know  —  and  so 
very  beautiful.  A  little  before  sundown,  we  struck 
the  great  military  road  a  few  miles  below  Goudaour. 


178  THE  STRANGER 

That  was  the  station  at  the  summit  of  the  pass  where 
the  Cossacks  expected  to  spend  the  night. 

"  By  the  side  of  the  road  there  was  a  fallen  down, 
deserted  house.  And  David's  father  —  the  chief  — 
made  a  hot  fire  of  charcoal  behind  a  wall  and  over  it 
he  arranged  a  bag  full  of  cartridges.  By  pulling  a 
long  string,  which  he  laid  through  the  snow,  back  to 
the  ambush  on  the  hillside,  he  could  spill  them  into 
the  fire.  And  then,  having  tied  our  horses  far  back 
in  the  woods  and,  being  very  careful  not  to  make 
tracks  in  the  snow,  we  each  made  a  hiding  place  be- 
hind a  rock.  We  were  just  near  enough  to  call  to 
each  other.  It  was  very  still  —  and  cold  —  and,  oh, 
so  beautiful ! 

"  We  were  high  up  toward  the  pass  —  above  us  were 
the  peaks  of  Kasbek  and  Elbrus  —  the  very  highest 
mountains  in  Europe.  Only  a  mile  or  so  away,  but  a 
couple  of  thousand  feet  below  us,  was  a  village  they 
called  Mlety,  and  beyond,  one  slope  fell  from  another, 
down,  down  into  the  valley.  Here  and  there  I  could 
see  a  river,  sometimes  still  and  black,  sometimes 
tumbling  down  the  rocks  as  white  as  the  snow  on 
Kasbek." 

He  lit  a  new  cigarette. 

"  You  have  never  seen  the  mountains.  I  love  them 
very  much.  I  had  not  seen  them  since  I  had  left  the 
High  Atlas  with  my  father  to  make  the  Hadj.  They 
are  so  peaceful  —  the  great  hills  —  so  eternally  peace- 
ful. And  I  had  come  there  —  into  that  quiet  place  — 
to  find  out  if  I  were  brave." 

As  Eunice  saw  the  little  spot  of  color  in  his  cheeks 
deepen  at  the  mere  memory,  she,  too,  felt  the  contrast 


THE  DINNER  179 

which  l\ad  thrilled  him  at  the  time  —  God's  calm  on 
the  mountaintop  and  the  grim  business  before  him. 

"  From  Mlety,''  he  said,  shaking  himself  out  of  the 
poignant  memory  to  take  up  his  story,  "  the  road  zig- 
zagged up  the  face  of  the  mountain  past  us.  Here 
and  there  I  could  see  stretches  of  it.  I  had  almost 
gone  to  sleep  in  the  cold  —  and  the  beauty  of  it  all !  — 
and  suddenly  I  was  wide  awake.  Way  down  toward 
the  village  I  saw  the  Cossacks.  The  next  time  they 
came  in  sight  I  could  count  them.  There  were  a  hun- 
dred, with  the  prisoners  in  their  midst.  And  they 
came  so  slowly! 

"  Suddenly  —  so  suddenly  it  frightened  me  — 
David  called  to  me  in  English:  'Are  you  afraid?' 
'No/I  lied.  His  father  cursed  us  in  Armenian  and 
told  us  to  be  still. 

"  The  two  videttes,  who  rode  in  advance,  turned  the 
last  corner.  The  feet  of  their  horses  made  a  sharp, 
ringing  sound  on  the  hard-beaten  snow.  We  were 
very  quiet.  They  glanced  contemptously  at  the  half- 
ro i Tied  house.  The  charcoal  fire  made  no  smoke  to 
warn  them.  They  rode  on  and  the  main  body  of  Cos- 
sacks came  in  sight. 

"  I  remember  that  I  had  on  very  heavy  gloves.  But 
the  rifle  seemed  to  burn  my  hands.  I  was  going  to  kill 
a  man. 

"  The  Cossacks  were  singing.  They  were  very  tired 
with  their  long  ride  and  they  were  trying  to  cheer 
their  tired  horses.  They  thought  it  was  only  a  little 
ways  more  to  a  warm  fire  and  food  and  a  night's  rest. 

"When  the  captain  and  his  lieutenant  were  well 
past  the  house,  David's  father  pulled  the  string.     The 


180  THE  STRANGER 

noise  of  the  falling  cartridges  startled  the  officers. 
They  jerked  up  their  horses  and  glanced  about  sus- 
piciously. The  Cossacks  all  stopped.  When  the  first 
cartridge  popped  in  the  fire  —  that  was  the  signal  — 
we,  all  twelve,  fired.  Three  men  had  been  told  off 
to  kill  the  captain.  Two  for  the  lieutenant,  two  for 
each  of  the  sergeants.  David  and  I  and  one  of  the 
Hill  Brothers,  who  was  not  a  very  good  shot,  were 
to  pick  off  the  corporals. 

"  While  our  volley  was  still  echoing  through  the 
hills,  the  mass  of  the  cartridges,  fallen  into  the  char- 
coal, began  to  explode.  The  officers  were  all  killed 
and  the  soldiers  thought  there  were  very  many  of  us, 
so  they  bolted.  David's  father  jumped  up  and 
shouted,  '  The  horses !  Shoot  the  horses ! '  There  is 
an  Armenian  proverb  that  says :  i  It  is  easy  to  kill  a 
Cossack  who  is  dismounted.'     It  is  true." 

His  cigarette  had  gone  out  in  the  excitement  of  his 
memory.  He  lit  it  again,  and  went  on,  without  look- 
ing at  Eunice : 

"  I  was  horribly  afraid.  Not  so  much  at  first  as 
afterward.  I  went  to  look  at  my  corporal.  I  had 
seen  him  jump  in  his  saddle  when  I  shot  —  then 
his  horse  had  plunged  —  and  he  had  fallen  off.  He 
was  young,  too  —  not  much  older  than  I.  A  broad, 
square,  Russian  face,  but  the  hair  on  his  face  was 
scant  —  he  must  have  had  some  Mongol  blood. 

"  We  did  not  have  time  to  bury  them." 

He  smoked  furiously  for  a  few  minutes,  looking  all 
the  time  fixedly  at  a  point  on  the  carpet.  Gradually 
the  color  died  out  of  his  cheeks  and  he  visibly  relaxed. 

"You  see  how  foolish  it  was.     Of  course,  now,  I 


THE  DINNER  181 

know  that  was  not  what  my  father  meant  by  being 
brave  —  to  go  looking  for  danger.  He  meant  to  be 
brave  even  in  the  little  things  of  everyday  —  which  is 
so  much  harder. 

"  It  was  foolish.  But  I  will  tell  Lancaster,  if  he 
wants  to  know,  and  about  how  I  met  Inslavsky." 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  to  tell  him  tchy  you  went," 
Eunice  said  in  a  choked  voice.  "  He  might  not  under- 
stand. Anyhow  he  would  be  more  interested  in  the 
things  you  could  tell  him  which  —  which  aren't  so 
personal." 

He  looked  at  her  quickly,  gratefully.  It  was  very 
wonderful,  the  way  she  understood  so  surely  what  they 
both  felt  others  would  not  understand.  He  was  sur- 
prised and  troubled  to  see  tears  in  her  great  eyes. 

"  Why !    What  is  the  matter?  " 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I'd  known  you  when  you  were  a  little 
boy  like  that  —  all  alone  —  trying  to  do  what  your 
father  wanted  you  to  —  and  not  knowing  how. 
Didn't  you  have  any  friends?  " 

The  day  before  he  would  have  answered  that  he 
had  had  legions  of  friends  —  always.  But  this  even- 
ing he  was  acquiring  a  new  standard  of  friendship. 

"  No,  not  exactly.  I  do  not  think  I  ever  had  a 
friend  —  a  real  friend.     No,  I  never  did." 

"  I've  been  lonely,  too." 

Both  of  them  knew  that  now  at  last  their  loneli- 
ness was  over. 

But  fortunately,  for  neither  of  them  felt  capable 
of  talking  about  it,  the  doorbell  rang  and  Jenny 
brought  in  Pete  and  Win. 


CHAPTER  XII 

HELEN'S   EVENING 

Helen's  trip  to  the  suburbs  that  evening  was  not 
successful  and  she  was  not  accustomed  to  failure. 

None  too  gently  she  had  taken  Lane  "  in  hand." 
He  had  suffered  acutely  under  the  process,  but  it  had 
not  occurred  to  him  to  strike  back.  He  would  have 
been  mightily  surprised,  if  he  had  been  told,  that  all 
unwittingly  he  had  done  so.  But  the  questioning  he 
had  started  about  the  subject  of  her  address,  her  most 
cherished  watchword,  "  Efficiency,"  had  upset  her 
disastrously. 

It  was  instinctive  with  Helen  to  repel  criticism  at 
the  moment  it  was  given.  Her  opinions  were  not 
swayed  easily.  The  revision  of  accepted  standards 
was  a  slow  process  with  her.  But  her  mental  ma- 
chinery, far  from  being  fossilized,  was  unusually  alert. 
It  was  equally  a  part  of  her  nature  to  give  careful 
consideration  to  criticism.  After  she  had  weighed  it 
pro  and  con  —  if  she  found  it  just  —  she  changed  her 
mind.  Slow  to  abandon  the  things  she'  had  tried  and 
found  good,  she  was  still  alert  and  eager  for  new  and 
helpful  ideas. 

When  Lane  left  her  at  the  train,  she  had  made  little 
progress  in  the  consideration  of  his  criticism.  But 
from  their  short  conversation  she  had  received  a  new 
inspiration  of  him.     He  was  mature.     At  first  he  had 

182 


HELEN'S  EVENING  183 

seemed  rather  juvenile.  His  bashfulness,  his  interest 
in  the  make-believe  fete,  his  naive  confession  of  faith 
in  Allah,  his  love  of  poetry  and  music,  all  these  things 
had  seemed  to  her  a  little  childish. 

She  thought  of  Frank  Lockwood  in  much  the  same 
way.  His  love  of  color  and  line,  his  delight  in  old 
furniture,  his  enthusiasms  for  sunsets,  such  preoccu- 
pations seemed  to  her  hardly  grown  up.  One  rainy 
night  Frank  had  walked  home  with  her  across  the 
Square.  He  had  interrupted  a  serious  conversation, 
had  halted  her  for  a  full  minute,  her  feet  in  a  puddle 
of  water,  trying  to  make  her  realize  the  beauty  of 
Fifth  Avenue  —  the  asphalt  shining  in  the  wet,  the 
street  lights  glowing  through  the  mist,  and  the  point 
of  vivid  color  from  the  rear  light  of  an  automobile. 
Of  course  it  was  beautiful,  but  why  get  one's  feet  wet 
about  it? 

Eunice  could  be  forgiven  for  such  interests  because 
of  her  ill  health.  But  Helen  really  believed  that  if 
I  j  mice  were  stronger  she  would  be  interested  in  more 
s<  nous  things  —  more  like  herself.  In  the  midst  of 
so  sorry  a  world,  with  so  many  things  wrong  which 
might  be  put  right,  art  seemed  to  her  little  more  than 
a  child's  toy. 

That  evening  Lane  had  given  her  the  impression  of 
I  person  quite  as  old  and  wise  and  experienced  with 
life  as  herself,  who  instead  of  admiring  her  was  rather 
amazed,  who  instead  of  looking  up  to  her  as  a  remark- 
able person  looked  at  her  level-eyed  —  as  at  a  strange 
and  not  altogether  estimable  specimen.  Back  of  his 
lied  courtesy,  she  saw  he  did  not  think  highly 
of  her.     She  was  not  stupid  in  such  things.     Despite 


184  THE  STRANGER 

what  sometimes  seemed  like  callousness  to  the  feelings 
of  others,  she  was  sensitive  to  their  opinion  of  her. 
In  a  way  Lane's  attitude  angered  her,  but  to  a  greater 
degree  it  disturbed  her.  She  wondered  why  he  dis- 
liked her?  Was  it  an  error  in  his  taste  or  some  fault 
in  herself?  It  would  have  been  simple  to  dismiss  him 
as  a  fool,  simpler  and  more  comfortable.  But  she  was 
too  courageous  a  person  to  find  relief  in  such  a  sub- 
terfuge. 

Without  doubt  Helen  thought  well  of  herself,  but 
she  was  not  really  so  conceited  as  she  often  seemed. 
Her  friends  were  most  to  blame.  They  were  always 
chanting  her  praises,  reminding  her  of  her  manifold 
successes.  There  was  a  current  joke  among  the 
friends  about  the  statue  which  Pete  talked  of  ar- 
ranging for  her.  It  was  to  be  "  solid  brick  "  to  typify 
her  character.  But  hidden  within  her  was  a  timid 
spot;  she  sometimes  wondered  if  these  successes  of 
her  were  really  "worth  while" — at  times  it  all 
seemed  to  her  a  dream,  these  praises  an  empty  noise. 

Lane  had  —  with  no  such  intention,  to  be  sure,  but 
by  no  means  gently  —  put  his  finger  on  this  timid 
spot.  Quite  humbly,  as  the  train  carried  her  with  its 
rumble  and  roar  to  her  destination,  she  asked  herself 
whether  she  or  Lane  was  to  blame  for  his  dislike  of 
her.  She  did  not  arrive  at  an  answer.  The  one  firm 
conclusion  she  reached  from  the  short  interview  was 
that  he  was  an  adult.  He  was  grown  up  and  intelli- 
gent, there  was  a  certain  force  of  character,  some 
power  she  could  not  define.  He  was  a  person  whose 
opinions  demanded  respectful  consideration. 

At  dinner,  all  thought  of  him  was  crowded  out  of 


HELEN'S  EVENING  185 

her  mind  by  the  immediate  demands  of  her  profession. 
Her  method  of  raising  money  for  charities  required 
close  study  of  the  people  she  dealt  with.  For  "  Indi- 
vidual Appeal  "  it  was  necessary  to  know  her  victims, 
their  incomes  and  prejudices,  their  interests  and 
sympathies.  So,  between  mouthfuls,  she  asked  her 
hostess  searching  questions  about  the  people  of  wealth 
in  the  community  and  especially  about  the  women  she 
was  to  meet  that  evening.  Her  interest  in  the  rich 
was  so  marked  that  her  hostess  set  her  down  for  a 
snob. 

After  dinner,  the  hostess  carried  her  off  in  a 
luxurious  limousine  to  the  hall  where  she  was  to 
speak.  It  was  rapidly  filling  with  expensively 
gowned  women,  the  elite  of  the  suburb.  There  was 
scarcely  one  of  them  who  was  not  overweighted  with 
jewels. 

At  the  door,  her  hostess,  the  president  of  the  club, 
introduced  Helen  to  the  lady  secretary,  and  the  three 
of  them,  accompanied  by  polite  hand-clapping,  made 
their  way  to  the  platform.  The  secretary  read  the 
minutes  of  the  last  session,  and  some  announcements 
for  the  future.  And  the  president  arose  to  introduce 
Helen. 

"  I  have  been  at  great  trouble  to  persuade  the 
Women's  Political  Union  to  send  Miss  Cash  to  address 
us.  I  have  been  trying  to  arrange  it  for  more  than 
a  year  —  ever  since  my  sister  who  lives  in  Tarrytown 
told  me  what  a  memorable  and  stimulating  talk  Miss 
Cash  gave  to  the  ladies  of  the  Westchester  County 
Club.  I  wrote  at  once  to  the  Union,  but  they  replied 
that  it  was  quite  hopeless.     Of  all  their  speakers, 


186  THE  STRANGER 

Miss  Cash  was  the  most  in  demand.  She  was  booked 
for  months  in  advance.  But  I  did  not  allow  myself 
to  be  discouraged.  I  kept  at  it  and  at  last  my  efforts 
are  crowned  with  success.  Miss  Cash  is  here  to-night 
to  address  us  on  *■  Efficiency.'  I  can  make  no  boast  of 
so  estimable  a  virtue,  but  at  least  I  can  make  a  modest 
claim  to  '  persistency.'  The  reward  of  my  persist- 
ency " —  she  drove  home  her  play  on  words  — "  will 
now  speak  to  you  on  '  Efficiency.'  " 

During  this  interval  —  the  secretary  and  the  presi- 
dent had  consumed  fifteen  minutes  —  Helen,  as  she 
looked  out  over  the  audience,  had  thought  again  of 
Lane.  He  had  said  he  would  like  to  hear  her  speak. 
She  was  very  glad  he  was  not  there.  She  could  almost 
visualize  him  before  her,  looking  on  curiously  at  the 
proceedings,  courteously  trying  to  hide  his  amused 
skepticism. 

What  did  this  audience  lack  to  make  it  a  vital 
force  for  human  betterment?  After  all,  were  these 
women  short  on  efficiency?  They  were  clever  enough 
at  the  things  they  really  wanted  to  do.  Every  one 
of  them  was  a  success  in  her  own  eyes.  They  had 
proven  themselves  efficient  in  the  scramble  for  hus- 
bands. They  had  captured  prizes.  They  had  wanted 
to  live  smartly  in  a  smart  community.  They  had 
succeeded.  They  were  eminently  successful  in  getting 
the  kind  of  raiment  they  wanted.  They  were  ob- 
viously efficient  in  persuading  their  men  to  sign  gen- 
erous checks. 

There  was  one  striking,  immensely  expensive,  Paris 
gown  which  caught  Helen's  eye  especially  and  seemed 
ludicrously   symbolic.     There  could  be  no  question 


HELEN'S  EVENING  187 

but  that  it  had  taken  great  patience,  great  persever- 
ance, great  skill  —  the  infinite  capacity  for  taking 
pains  —  to  arrange  that  gown.  If  its  wearer  should 
suddenly  become  as  deeply  interested  in  securing  a 
playground  for  the  children  of  the  silk  factories  — 
one  of  the  projects  in  which  the  club  was  pretending 
an  interest  —  there  would  be  no  need  for  Helen  to 
preach  efficiency  to  her.  Her  gorgeous  dress  proved 
that  she  knew  how  to  get  what  she  wanted. 

The  difference  between  the  audience  and  Helen  was 
not,  she  suddenly  realized,  one  of  efficiency.  Their 
technique  in  the  occupations  to  which  they  set  their 
minds  was  every  bit  as  high  as  hers.  It  was  a  dif- 
ference in  aspirations.  Lane  had  been  right  to  put 
the  emphasis  there. 

In  the  sheen  of  their  silks,  the  glitter  of  their 
jewels,  she  saw  the  limits  of  their  aspirations.  Hu- 
man betterment?  The  Fate  of  the  Republic?  The 
Misery  of  the  Masses?  The  Children  of  the  Poor  — 
the  millions  of  little  starvelings  who  never  grow  up? 
Such  things  were  only  side  issues!  The  wearer  of 
that  Paris  gown  was  interested  in  herself  and,  pos- 
sibly, in  her  own  children  —  if  she  had  any. 

Lane  had  spoiled  Helen's  speech.  She  knew  that 
all  the  while  the  president  was  introducing  her.  She 
was  tempted  to  give  up  her  carefully  prepared,  often 
successfully  repeated,  address  and  throw  some  hot 
shots  of  scorn  at  these  women  for  the  pettiness  of 
their  aims.  But  it  was  part  of  her  doctrine  of 
efficiency  to  distrust  the  extemporaneous.  She  be- 
lieved in  having  things  thought  out  in  advance.  She 
could  not  trust  herself  to  improvise. 


1S8  THE  STRANGER 

As  she  rose  to  bow  to  the  president  and  the  ladies, 
she  knew  that  her  speech  was  spoiled.  And,  of  course, 
feeling  so  about  it,  it  was.  Not  once,  in  spite  of  her 
utmost  efforts,  did  she  get  hold  of  her  audience.  In 
her  desperation,  she  bit  her  words  in  two  and  the  few 
listeners,  who  made  an  effort  to  understand  her, 
missed  most  of  it.  She  was  so  unused  to  this  feeling 
of  futility  that  a  dozen  times  she  nearly  stopped. 
But  she  was  a  determined  young  lady  and  she  bumped 
her  way  through  to  the  bitter  end.  She  sat  down  at 
last,  her  cheeks  on  fire.  She  was  infuriated  by  the 
applause,  she  knew  they  would  have  hissed. 

Luckily,  she  had  to  hurry  to  catch  a  train.  She 
managed  to  hold  her  head  high  for  the  few  minutes 
while  people,  who  had  nearly  fallen  asleep,  told  her 
how  they  had  been  stirred  by  her  eloquence. 

"  I  must  apologize/'  she  said  to  her  hostess,  as  they 
stepped  into  the  motor.  "  I  failed  utterly  to-night. 
I  don't  know  what  was  the  matter." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  not  well,"  the  president  said 
stiffly. 

She  had  boasted  so  much  of  her  success  in  arranging 
this  address.  She  had  hoped  that  it  would  eclipse 
the  memory  of  all  meetings  arranged  by  former  presi- 
dents. It  was  to  have  been  the  crowning  glory  of 
her  administration.     It  had  fallen  flat. 

a  No,  I'm  perfectly  well,"  Helen  said  loyally.  "  I 
can't  claim  that  excuse.  I  must  be  developing  nerves 
in  my  old  age  —  I  didn't  know  I  had  any.  I  haven't 
any  excuse  to  offer,  but  I'm  very  sorry.  I  don't  know 
what  was  the  matter." 


HELEN'S  EVENING  189 

The  rest  of  the  ride  to  the  station  was  silent.  But 
she  did  know. 

Alone  at  last  in  the  crowded  car  which  was  hurrying 
back  to  New  York,  Helen  sat  rigidly,  trying  to  ignore 
the  tears  of  rage  which  she  could  not  control.  Lane 
was  to  blame,  and  for  a  minute  or  two  she  cursed  him. 

In  dealing  with  her  assistants  and  colleagues, 
Helen  had  learned  to  excuse  occasional  failures,  to 
be  content  with  a  high  average  of  success  —  in  others. 
It  was  harder  to  apply  this  generous  rule  to  herself. 
She  could  not  recall  ever  having  failed  so  miserably 
before.  There  was  some  comfort  in  the  thought  that 
it  had  not  been  an  important  affair.  No  one  for 
whose  opinion  she  specially  cared  had  witnessed  her 
downfall.  But  this  was  small  comfort.  She  resolved 
to  write  to  the  Union  that  she  had  gone  stale  on  speak- 
ing and  that  they  would  have  to  cancel  all  her  en- 
gagements for  a  while.  She  could  not  speak  in  public 
again  till  she  had  had  time  to  think  this  matter  out 
and  analyze  her  failure. 

The  tension  of  her  muscles  relaxed  after  she  had 
reached  this  decision.  After  all,  it  was  not  so  very 
tragic.  She  reproached  herself  for  having  been  in  a 
pet  at  Lane.  Intelligent  criticism  is  the  highest  serv- 
ice one  person  can  render  another.  Something  must 
have  been  wrong  in  her  theory  or  it  could  not  have 
been  so  sadly  out  of  gear  by  a  few  chance  words.  She 
really  owed  him  gratitude  for  having  called  her  at- 
tention to  its  weakness.  She  would  work  the  problem 
out  from  this  new  angle.  She  would  talk  it  over  with 
him. 


190  THE  STRANGER 

She  realized  that  he  was  occupying  a  larger  and 
ever  larger  share  of  her  attention.  It  was  typical  of 
her  that  she  thought  of  him  in  terms  of  making  him 
over,  of  reforming  him.  Her  new  respect  for  him,  as 
an  intellectual  being,  made  her  feel  more  keenly  than 
ever  that  there  was  some  form  of  waste  about  his 
manner  of  life.  Surely  there  was  a  more  worth-while 
occupation  for  him  than  collecting  Oriental  poems! 
What  ought  he  to  do  to  utilize  his  talents  to  the  best 
advantage?  It  was  an  interesting  problem.  She  was 
inclined  to  think  that  the  trouble  with  him  was  the 
lack  of  a  proper  ambition.  But  she  did  not  want  to 
jump  at  conclusions.  She  must  study  him  a  bit. 
She  would  have  to  see  more  of  him,  get  to  know  him 
better. 

She  realized,  with  an  annoyed  smile,  that  she  had 
not  made  a  promising  beginning.  He  did  not  like  her. 
But  this  seemed  a  small  matter.  She  generally  had 
her  way  with  men.  Her  difficulty  had  never  been  in 
overcoming  their  dislike  for  her.  It  had  been  just  the 
opposite  —  struggling  against  their  disposition  to 
like  her  too  uncomfortably  much.  Make  him  like  her? 
Why,  if  she  set  her  mind  to  it  she  could  make  him  fall 
in  love! 

But  she  formed  no  such  projects.  All  she  wanted 
was  "  to  take  him  in  hand  " —  for  his  own  good.  She 
would  win  his  good  will  and  then  draw  to  the  surface 
those  values  which  she  was  convinced  were  hidden 
within  him.  This  amiable  plan  for  his  remodeling 
quite  restored  her  good  temper. 

Jefferson  Market  clock  was  striking  one  o'clock 
when  she  let  herself,  very  quietly,  into  the  Flat.     She 


HELEN'S  EVENING  191 

was  at  once  the  qui  vive  —  disturbed.  A  streak  of 
light  shone  below  Eunice's  door.  She  tiptoed  down 
the  hallway  and  pushed  the  door  open.  Eunice  had 
been  in  bed,  for  it  was  disordered,  but  now  she  was 
sitting  in  a  heap  on  the  lounge,  wrapped  in  an  eider- 
down robe  and  a  blanket.  She  had  tied  a  towel  about 
her  head.  Her  two  wonderful  braids  of  hair  escaped 
from  it  down  into  her  lap.  She  was  staring  rigidly, 
aimlessly  at  the  wall. 

"  What's  the  matter,  dear?  "  Helen  asked,  in  deep 
concern.     "Another  bad  spell?  " 

Eunice  shook  herself  out  of  her  reverie  at  the  words 
and  shrugged  her  shoulders,  without  answering. 

"  Did  that  man  stay  till  you  were  worn  out?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  Pete  and  Win  came  in  after  dinner  and 
took  him  away  —  early.  I'm  all  right  —  just  don't 
feel  sleepy.     Don't  talk  to  me  or  I'll  cry." 

As  she  spoke  the  tears  overflowed.  It  was  the  first 
time  Helen  had  ever  seen  her  cry.  Often  Helen  had 
sat  by  her  bed  and  watched  her,  her  lips  tight  pressed, 
quivering  now  and  then  with  a  wave  of  pain,  but 
always  she  had  been  dry-eyed. 

"  Eunice,  dear,"  she  said,  sitting  down  beside  her 
and  throwing  an  arm  about  her.  "  What  has  hap- 
pened? " 

"Happened?  Nothing  has  happened!  Nothing 
ever  does.  Oh,  I'm  a  cry-baby!  But  it's  hard,  too 
hard,  to  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  all  the  time." 

"  Dearie,  you  don't  have  to  keep  your  lip  still  for 
me.     I  understand." 

Eunice  jerked  herself  away  from  Helen's  encircling 
arm. 


192  THE  STRANGER 

"  No !  You  don't  understand.  Thank  your  gods, 
that  you  never  have  understood  and  never  will  —  what 
it  means  to  be  always  sick !  It  isn't  the  suffering  — 
oh,  the  pain's  easy.  It's  knowing  you're  sick.  It 
wouldn't  be  so  bad  if  the  brain  were  sick,  too  —  too 
sick  to  dream  and  desire.  But  I  want  things  —  my 
brain's  healthy  enough  for  that !  I  want  to  live,  to  be 
a  regular  person,  to  laugh  and  cry,  and  struggle  and 
suffer,  like  other  people  —  to  be  a  woman!  And 
always  the  body  says  '  No ! '  No,  you'll  never  under- 
stand that,  you  can't!  It's  too  hideous  for  a  well 
person  to  conceive.  Oh,  I  want  life !  " —  she  stretched 
out  her  arms  in  a  gesture  of  pure  tragedy  —  "  And  — 
and  I'm  already  half  dead !  " 

The  excitement  which  had  made  all  her  muscles 
tense  suddenly  relaxed.  She  crumpled  up,  her  face 
in  Helen's  lap,  her  frail  body  shaking  with  soul- 
rending  sobs. 

Helen  sat  there  silent,  stroking  her  hair,  sometimes 
lifting  the  great  coils  to  her  lips,  looking  out  the  while, 
through  a  mist  of  unshed  tears,  at  a  new  and  more 
poignant  realization  of  the  cruelties  life  can  contrive. 
Eunice's  vehemence  frightened  her.  Her  heart  with- 
in her  wrung  its  hands.  Eunice  had  always  been  so 
calm,  had  taken  the  limitations  the  Fates  imposed 
on  her  with  such  quiet  dignity  —  as  a  matter  of 
course,  to  which  she  had  become  accustomed.  Helen 
had  thought  that  habit  had  dulled  the  hurt.  And 
now  she  knew  that  Eunice  was  right.  She  had  never 
understood,  never  would  understand,  what  it  means 
to  know  yourself  in-valid. 

Vaguely  she  wondered  what  had  stirred  the  storm. 


HELEN'S  EVENING  193 

What  had  shaken  Eunice  to  so  sudden  and  unusual  a 
burst  of  bitterness?  She  could  find  no  answer.  And 
besides,  speculations  would  do  no  good. 

"  Dearest,"  Helen,  the  practical  one,  said,  "  hadn't 
I  best  put  you  to  bed  and  give  you  some  drops?  " 

In  spite  of  what  Dr.  Riggs  had  told  her,  Helen  still 
dreaded  the  drug.  When  Eunice  asked  for  it,  she 
administered  it  with  unspoken  reluctance  nervously, 
laughing  gayly  the  while  and  talking  of  this  and  that 
and  nothing  at  all.  It  was  for  her  a  distressful  pro- 
ceeding.    She  never  suggested  it. 

But  this  night,  troubled  beyond  bearing  by  the  sight 
of  Eunice's  psychological  suffering,  she  herself  pro- 
posed the  drug  which  would  bring  surcease  —  as  she 
had  never  been  able  to  do  on  behalf  of  mere  physical 
pain.  Eunice  did  not  want  to  be  put  to  sleep,  she 
wished  Helen  would  go  away  and  leave  her  with  her 
woe.     But  she  knew  it  would  be  useless  to  resist. 

If  the  Stranger  could  have  watched  as  Helen,  in 
her  resplendent  gown  of  black  and  jet,  her  bare  shoul- 
ders gleaming  in  the  electric  light,  smoothed  out  the 
crumpled  bed  with  strong,  gentle  hands,  unwrapped 
the  blanket  and  robe  from  about  Eunice,  tucked  her 
in  bed,  her  two  braids  outside  the  warm  covers,  with 
precise  care  measured  out  the  sleeping  draught  and 
steadied  her  with  an  arm  about  the  shoulders  as  she 
drank  it  and  then  tucked  her  in  once  more  and  kissed 
her,  he  would  have  thought  much  more  highly  of  her 
than  he  did. 

Helen  turned  off  the  light  and  went  to  her  own 
room  to  undress,  but  she  returned  at  once  and  drew 
up  a  chair  beside  the  bed. 


194  THE  STRANGER 

"Oh,  don't  sit  up,"  Eunice  protested  peevishly. 
"  I'm  all  right.  I'll  be  asleep  in  a  minute.  You've 
got  to  work  in  the  morning.  I'll  ring  if  I  want 
anything." 

"  I'm  going  to  smoke  a  cigarette  before  I  turn  in," 
Helen  said  firmly. 

A  faint  light  shone  into  the  room  from  the  street 
lamps.  As  Helen  lit  her  cigarette  and  sank  back  com- 
fortably in  her  chair,  she  heard  a  movement  in  the 
bed  and  turning  saw  Eunice  stretch  out  her  hand. 
She  took  it  in  hers,  kissed  it  lightly  and,  still  keeping 
tight  hold  of  it,  put  it  back  under  the  covers. 

"  Nell,"  Eunice  said  dreamily,  "  you're  the  goodest 
person  in  the  world  and  the  most  wonderful.  I'm  a 
little  wretch  to  cry  —  having  you." 

"  I'm  not  nearly  as  good  as  somebody  I  know  right 
here  in  this  room  —  nor  so  wonderful.  I'm  not  won- 
derful at  all.  I  made  a  frightful  mess  of  my  speech 
to-night.     It  was  a  flat  failure  —  fierce !  " 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

*  Yes,  it  was.  Go  to  sleep  and  I'll  tell  you  about 
it  in  the  morning." 

The  clasp  on  her  hand  tightened  and  then  very 
gradually  relaxed.  Before  Helen's  cigarette  had 
burned  out,  the  drug  had  performed  its  miracle  of 
mercy.  She  disengaged  her  hand  gently,  opened  the 
window,  made  sure  the  covers  were  close  about 
Eunice's  chin,  kissed  her  again,  and  went  to  her  room. 

After  she  had  turned  off  her  own  light  and  had 
made  herself  snug  for  the  night,  her  thoughts  reverted 
to  Lane.    And,  as  though  she  were  speaking  to  him, 


HELENA  EVENING  195 

she  said  to  herself :  "  I  may  be  wrong  about  my  Gospel 
of  Efficiency  and  I  certainly  made  a  pitiful  fizzle  of 
my  speech  to-night  —  but  at  least  I'm  some  good  to 
Eunice." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  CAFE 

When  Pete  and  Win  had  arrived  at  the  Flat  on  this 
memorable  evening,  they  had  both  noticed  that  Eunice 
looked  tired.  So  early  in  the.  evening  they  took  Lane 
away  with  them  to  the  Cafe  Santa  Fe. 

There  they  discovered  Lancaster  and  Frank  talking 
earnestly  at  one  of  the  tables. 

"  I'm  surprised,  Lancaster,''  Pete  said,  "  to  find  a 
serious-minded  Socialist  like  you  spending  your  eve- 
ning in  this  giddy  whirl." 

"  I'm  not  spending  my  evening  here,"  Lancaster 
said  stiffly.  "  Frank  and  I  have  been  talking  over 
the  poster  he  is  doing  for  the  Russian  mass  meeting. 
We  had  just  finished  and  I'm  going  home  to  work." 

"  Don't  apologize,"  Pete  said.     "  I'll  forgive  you." 

Lancaster  was  about  to  protest  when  Lane  spoke  up. 

"  When  can  I  find  you  at  leisure,  Professor  Lancas- 
ter?    I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you." 

"  Good !     Any  time  you  set.     I'll  make  leisure." 

"  Oh,  it  is  nothing  important.  You  asked  about  my 
Russian  experiences.     They  were  not  much  but " 

"  Lancaster's  work  this  evening  isn't  really  as  im- 
portant as  he  thinks,"  Pete  interrupted.  "  He  has 
time  to  burn.  Why  not  sit  down  here  and  tell  all  of 
us?" 

196 


THE  CAFE  197 

"  Sure,"  Win  said.  "  Why  not?  If  you  don't  mind 
an  audience.     We're  all  interested." 

The  ubiquitous  Alphonse  brought  up  chairs  and 
stood  at  attention,  waiting  for  orders. 

"  If  you  do  not  mind,"  Lane  said,  "  I  will  take 
water. 

"  I  have  done  everything  wrong,"  he  said,  as  his 
little  audience  settled  down.  "  I  seem  to  have  built 
up  considerable  suspense  —  for  my  least  interesting 
story.  My  going  to  Russia  was  quite  accidental.  In 
Robert  College  I  made  friends  with  an  Armenian  boy, 
and  one  time  I  went  to  visit  him  in  his  home  in  the 
Caucasus  —  in  the  hills  above  Koutafs.  His  father 
was  a  revolutionist.  When  he  found  that  I  could 
speak  the  Tatar  language  he  asked  me  to  carry  a 
letter  for  him  to  some  friends  in  Moscow. 

"  Most  of  the  waiters  in  Russia  are  Tatar  boys  — 
they  are  Muslim  and  so  do  not  drink.  One  has  to  be 
very  sober  to  wait  on  such  drunkards  as  the  Russians. 
These  Tatar  waiters  have  something  like  the  old  guilds 
of  Europe.  They  have  their  own  laws  and  customs. 
They  are  not  interested  in  politics,  so  the  secret  police 
never  trouble  them. 

"  It  was  easy  for  me  to  travel  in  that  role.  I  did 
not  know  what  was  in  that  letter.  I  did  not  care. 
I  was  only  sixteen  or  so.  It  was  great  fun  for  me. 
I  had  never  been  in  a  railroad  train  before.  It  was 
the  first  Christian  country  I  had  seen.  Bulgarian, 
which  I  had  learned  at  college  from  the  boys,  is  very 
like  Russian,  so  the  language  came  easy.  I  had  no 
trouble  with  the  police. 

"  As  soon  as  I  reached  Moscow,  I  found  a  job  in  a 


198  THE  STRANGER 

hotel  —  The  Slavansky  Bazaar.  The  next  day,  as 
soon  as  I  had  a  little  time  off,  I  went  to  the  address 
my  Armenian  friends  had  given  me.  There  were  half 
a  dozen  people  in  the  house  —  all  very  excited.  The 
police  were  on  Inslavsky's  trail  and  had  followed  him 
there.  I  saw  them  watching  at  the  door  as  I  came 
in.  The  friends  were  very  anxious  to  have  Inslavsky 
escape.  I  do  not  understand  their  organization,  but 
he  seemed  to  be  their  chief.  It  appealed  to  my  boyish 
spirit  of  adventure  and  I  proposed  to  help  them  out. 
I  put  my  Tatar  cap  in  my  pocket,  took  his  overcoat 
and  hat,  which  the  police  were  sure  to  recognize ;  put 
on  some  dark  glasses,  so  they  would  think  it  was  a 
disguise,  and  went  out  —  stooping  like  an  old  man. 

"  Of  course  they  might  have  arrested  me  at  once. 
But  it  was  morning  and  they  generally  trail  along 
after  a  suspect  all  day  to  discover  his  friends.  They 
followed  me.  I  led  them  to  the  hotel  where  I  was 
working.  Of  course  —  the  police  are  so  stupid  — 
they  waited  outside.  I  went  down  in  the  cellar, 
burned  Inslavsky's  things  in  a  stove,  put  on  my  Tatar 
cap,  and,  standing  up  straight,  walked  out  past  them. 
It  was  so  easy. 

"  I  ran  back  to  the  house  where  I  had  left  Inslav- 
sky. I  disguised  him  as  an  old  Tatar  beggar  —  deaf 
and  dumb.  It  was  the  time  for  the  Hadj,  so  we 
joined  a  crowd  of  Persian  and  Tatar  pilgrims  and  got 
safely  to  Odessa.     It  was  simple. 

"  Inslavsky  thought  I  was  a  Tatar  boy  —  till  we 
were  safe  in  the  Bosporus.  When  we  were  in  sight 
of  Constantinople  I  told  him  about  my  father.  He 
wanted  me  to  come  with  him  to  Switzerland,  to  get 


THE  CAFE  199 

a  Western  education.  But  I  did  not  like  what  I  had 
seen  of  Christian  lands  in  Russia.  So  I  gave  him 
the  slip  in  Constantinople  and  went  back  to  Robert 
College. 

"  Inslavsky  makes  too  much  of  it.  Being  only  a 
boy,,  it  was  fun  for  me  —  outwitting  the  police  —  a 
game,  like  playing  tag.  I  did  not  know  what  I  was 
doing  nor  how  serious  it  was.  And  one  feels  a  little 
ashamed  of  having  played  with  so  serious  a  thing. 

"  I  have  never  been  to  Russia  again.  So  you  see  I 
do  not  know  anything  about  the  politics." 

Of  course  he  could  have  held  them  spellbound  with 
stories  of  "The  Brothers  of  the  Hills."  Even  his 
experiences  in  Russia  had  not  been  as  colorless  as  he 
pretended,  but  his  interest  in  such  things  was  so  dif- 
ferent from  theirs.  His  memories  were  all  of  his  own 
heart  and  how  it  had  suffered  in  those  days  of  his 
Great  Test.     The  bare  events  did  not  interest  him. 

If,  for  instance,  some  one  had  announced  that  on 
the  eighth  of  May,  1894,  he  had  chopped  his  grand- 
mother to  pieces  with  a  meat  ax,  which  had  cost  f  1.39, 
and  had  given  no  explanation,  it  would  not  have 
stirred  Lane.  But  it  would  have  interested  him  viv- 
idly if  the  person  had  told  why  he  did  it,  how  he 
felt  at  the  time,  and  what  he  thought  of  the  exploit 
now.    An  uninterpreted  fact  was  dead  to  Lane. 

He  could  not  tell  them  about  that  obscure,  unre- 
corded fight  amid  the  snow  peaks  of  the  Caucasus. 
It  had  been  a  great  spiritual  experience  to  him.  He 
had  been  terribly  afraid.  It  was  a  vivid,  poignant 
memory  of  which  he  could  not  speak  lightly.  It  was 
not  a  subject  for  casual  conversation.    These  men 


200  THE  STRANGER 

might  ask  him  what  make  of  rifle  he  had  used  to  kill 
his  man  or  the  date  of  the  affair,  or  some  such  banal 
question. 

His  lack  of  enthusiasm  for  talking  of  Russia  was 
so  manifest  that  Lancaster  switched  to  his  own 
specialty. 

"  I'm  writing  a  book  on  '  Cooperation  among  Primi- 
tive People.'  Fve  heard  that  the  Berbers  of  Southern 
Morocco  have  a  communistic  arrangement  for  their 
irrigation  —  joint  ownership  of  the  water." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Lane  said,  welcoming  the  change  of 
subject.  "  My  father  had  a  farm  in  the  Glawi  —  the 
High  Atlas.  It  is  mine  now.  There  is  little  rain, 
so  wre  have  to  irrigate  all  the  time  —  streams  which 
come  down  from  the  snow  mountains  —  they  are  all 
caught  in  a  big  ditch  and  we  have  small  ditches,  run- 
ning off  to  our  fields.  The  Ra'is  el-ma  —  the  water 
captain  —  superintends  it  all ;  tells  each  farmer  how 
many  hours  he  can  have  his  ditch  flooded.  We  meas- 
ure water  that  way  —  by  the  hour." 

"  How  does  he  decide  how  many  hours  each  farmer 
is  to  get?  Is  the  distribution  just?  Or  do  the  rich 
farmers  bribe  the  water  captain  for  more  than  their 
share?  " 

"  It  is  all  traditional.  There  are  not  more  than 
fifty  farmers  in  our  valley.  None  are  really  rich. 
I  suppose  the  biggest  farm  is  twice  the  size  of  mine 
—  and  that  supports  a  large  family.  Every  one 
knows  how  many  hours  he  had  last  year.  The  Ra'is 
el-ma  would  not  dare  to  change  the  rule  for  a  bribe. 
Those  who  were  cheated  would  surely  kill  him.  It 
is  permitted  to  kill  in  defense  of  life  —  and  water  is 


THE  CAFE  201 

life  for  us.  No,  the  water  captain  is  just  —  he  has 
to  be." 

"  Isn't  that  fine? "  Lancaster  demanded  of  the 
others.  "Nobody  makes  water,  everybody  needs  it. 
We  ought  to  own  it  in  common.     It's  just  like  air." 

"  Not  quite,"  Lane  demurred.  "  There  is  plenty  of 
air  and  not  quite  enough  water." 

"  So  much  the  more  reason  why  every  one  should 
have  a  just  share.  It  is  better  than  letting  one  man 
monopolize  the  water  —  use  what  he  wants  and  sell 
the  rest  at  exorbitant  prices." 

"Yes,"  Lane  agreed,  "that  is  the  way  so  many 
things  are  done  here.  If  one  man  owned  all  the  water 
the  rest  of  us  would  have  to  starve  or  work  for  him 
—  be  his  slaves  —  like  your  factory  workers.  Our 
scheme  is  better  than  that." 

"How  do  you  choose  the  water  captain?"  Win 
asked.     "Democratically?" 

"  Well,  no,  you  could  hardly  call  it  that.  The  men 
of  the  tribe  —  the  farmers  —  choose  him  every  year  at 
the  Great  Feast.  In  a  way  it  is  democratic.  But 
there  are  never  two  candidates.  There  is  rarely  more 
tli an  one  man  mean  enough  in  a  valley.  No  one  wants 
to  be  Rats  el-ma  unless  he  is  a  miser.  Whenever  there 
is  a  dispute  over  water  —  and  there  are  always  dis- 
putes —  the  Ra'is  must  decide.  And  surely  one  of  the 
disputants  will  be  angry.  In  the  course  of  a  year 
every  one  has  quarreled  with  him. 

"  Before  the  Great  Feast  they  begin  to  discuss  who 
shall  be  our  Rain  next  year.  All  agree  that  it  must 
not  be  the  same  man  —  whom  everybody  hates.  But 
no  one  else  is  willing.     It  is  always  the  same  — 


202  THE  STRANGER 

every  year.  So  at  last  the  elders  ask  him.  « No,'  he 
says,  <  I  am  getting  old.  I  am  tired  of  quarrels.  I 
want  to  die  in  peace.'  They  talk  of  nothing  else  for 
weeks.  On  the  feast  day  they  go  to  him  again.  '  Be 
our  Ra'is  and  we  will  give  you  another  hour  of  water.' 
1  No,'  he  says,  '  two  extra  hours.'  They  haggle  all  day 
long  and  get  very  angry. 

"  When  I  was  a  little  boy,  our  Rais  died.  They  had 
to  go  to  another  valley,  another  tribe,  to  find  a  man 
mean  enough.  They  had  to  give  him  a  farm  and  much 
water." 

"  Nevertheless,"  Lancaster  said,  "  it  is  a  very  inter- 
esting experiment  in  rudimentary  Socialism." 

"  I  do  not  know  much  about  Socialism,"  Lane  said. 
"  Only  a  few  books.  It  is  true  our  farmers  have  com- 
mon ownership  of  the  water.  But  they  have  more 
hatred,  more  fights,  over  that  than  over  the  land 
which  they  own  privately.  I  would  rather  be  poorer 
—  not  have  so  much  water  —  if  I  could  have  more 
friends." 

*  You're  discouraging,"  Pete  said,  with  a  grin.  He 
was  not  a  Socialist  and  enjoyed  Lancaster's  discom- 
fort. "  He  was  hoping  to  make  a  chapter  in  his  book 
on  the  beauties  of  water  Socialism  in  Morocco.  But 
I'm  afraid  you  know  too  much  about  it  for  his  pur- 
pose." 

"  Not  at  all,"  Lancaster  retorted  hotly.  "  This  is 
very  interesting.  What  do  a  few  petty  quarrels  mat- 
ter compared  to  the  freedom  from  wage  slavery?  " 

"  Some  of  the  valleys  are  not  so  bad  as  ours,"  Lane 
said.  "  The  people  may  not  be  so  rich,  but  they  quar- 
rel less  and  are  more  happy.     Always  in  such  com- 


THE  CAFE  203 

munities  you  will  find  a  wise  old  man  who  teaches 
the  people  to  be  friends.  The  water  captain  is  good, 
but  a  friendship  captain  is  better.  That  is  a  sort  of 
Socialism,  too,  I  think." 

The  thought  that  this  little  circle  might  break  up 
frightened  Lane,  as  a  child  is  frightened,  who  must 
go  alone  into  the  dark.  In  a  way  which  was  entirely 
new  to  him,  he  dreaded  the  idea  of  solitude.  The 
thinking  out  of  all  the  new  things  which  his  love  for 
Eunice  meant  was  a  task  he  was  reluctant  to  face. 
It  seemed  overwhelming.  So  he  strove  to  hold  the 
attention  of  his  audience. 

"  I've  only  read  a  few  books  about  Socialism,"  he 
said.  "  The  part  I  like  best  is  the  idea  of  brotherhood 
between  nations.  '  To  know  all  is  to  forgive  all,'  one 
of  your  wise  men  has  said.  If  the  nations  knew  each 
other  better  there  would  not  be  any  wars. 

"  The  differences  between  the  West  and  the  East 
are  very  dangerous.  My  people  do  not  know  or  un- 
derstand you,  so  they  despise  you.  Perhaps  some  of 
your  disdain  for  us  is  due  to  lack  of  familiarity. 
Sometimes  I  hear  discussions  of  the  relative  merits 
of  the  two  civilizations  —  which  is  the  better?  That 
seems  to  me  a  silly  question.  Each  of  us  might  be  so 
much  better  than  we  are.  Neither  of  us  have  so  very 
much  reason  to  be  proud.  But  the  differences  are 
great  and  must  be  understood  before  we  can  have  any 
real  Brotherhood  of  Man. 

"  Your  writers  speak  of  the  incomprehensible  East. 
But  the  West  is  quite  as  hard  for  us  to  comprehend. 
I  am  baffled.  There  is  so  much  of  your  life  I  marvel 
at.    You  are  wonderfully  skillful  at  many  things  — 


204  THE  STRANGER 

what  Miss  Cash  calls  <  efficient'  But  sometimes  it  is 
not  easy  to  understand  what  you  are  striving  for. 

"  Many  of  the  things  you  do  most  earnestly  —  the 
things  you  boast  of  —  seem  aimless  to  us.  Do  you 
not  sometimes  forget  that  sugar  is  sweet  when  you 
tear  it  to  pieces  —  analyze  it?  I  think  much  of  life's 
sweetness  is  lost  in  your  test  tubes." 

McGee,  who  had  enjoyed  it  when  Lancaster's  Social- 
ism was  under  fire,  could  not  sit  silent  when  the 
scientific  spirit  was  attacked. 

"  Just  because  we  have  melted  up  tons  of  sugar  in 
our  laboratories  —  destroyed  it,  as  you  say  —  we've 
learned  its  composition  and  how  to  double  the  amount 
of  sweetness  we  get  out  of  each  sugar  cane.  We've 
invented  saccarine  and  discovered  beet  sugar.  We've 
increased  the  sweetness  of  life.  What  went  into  the 
test  tubes  wasn't  wasted." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  Lane  said.  "  But  this  is  one  great 
difference  between  our  attitudes  toward  life.  Your 
interest  in  the  composition  of  matter  leaves  us  cold. 
The  energy  which  you  put  into  scientific  research  we 
utilize  in  other  ways,  which  seem  more  worthy  to 
us.  We  all  have  watched  the  moon  rise.  You  have 
measured  and  weighed  her,  have  found  out  what  she 
is  made  of  —  we  have  written  poems  in  praise  of  her 
surpassing  loveliness." 

"  We're  not  all  scientific,"  Frank  put  in.  "  Some  of 
us  —  thank  God !  —  hate  this  dominance  of  the  scien- 
tific spirit.     Do  you  know  this? 

"  Shall  I,  the  last  Endymion,  lose  all  hope, 
Because  rude  eyes  peer  at  my  mistress  through  a  telescope  t 
What  profit,  if  this  scientific  age 


THE  CAFE  205 

Burst  through  our  gates  with  all  its  retinue 
Of  modern  miracles!     Can  it  assuage 
One  lover's  breaking  heart?     What  can  it  do 
To  make  one  life  more  beautiful,  one  day 
More  god-like  in  its  period?  .  .  . 

"  There  are  a  whole  lot  of  people  in  America  — 
their  number  grows  all  the  time  —  for  whom  that 
kind  of  talk  is  the  straight  gospel.  I'm  a  Socialist. 
And  this  spirit  of  revolt  we're  trying  to  organize, 
all  the  unrest  of  our  day,  is  just  a  yearning  for 
beauty.  In  our  hearts  we  know  that  our  manner  of 
life  —  our  civilization  —  is  hideous.  And  the  soul  of 
man  hungers  for  beauty." 

"  Yes,"  Lane  said.  "  I  know  you  have  your  poets. 
And,  we,  of  course,  have  our  gross  materialists.  But 
on  the  whole,  you  erect  monuments  to  your  poets  after 
they  have  starved  to  death  —  if  you  do  not  cast  them 
into  prison.  We  honor  ours  while  they  live.  We 
rank  poetry  above  science." 

"  Sour  grapes !  Just  because  your  people  do  not 
understand  science,"  Lancaster  said  scornfully,  "  is 
no  reason  to  cry  it  down." 

"  Ah,"  Lane  laughed,  "  the  fox  and  the  sour  grapes? 
That  fable  hardly  applies.  We  taught  you  science. 
Before  America  was  discovered,  when  the  people  of 
Europe  thought  the  earth  was  flat,  there  were  long- 
established  astronomical  observatories  in  China, 
India,  Babylonia,  Egypt  where  the  movements  of  the 
planets  had  been  observed  and  recorded.  During  the 
Dark  Ages  of  Christendom,  Bagdad  and  Cordova  were 
the  scientific  centers  of  the  world.  When  at  last  the 
awakening  came  to  the  Christian  peoples,  they  had  to 


206  THE  STRANGER 

sit  at  the  feet  of  the  Saracens  for  what  they  naively 
called  the  i  New  Knowledge.'  Translations  from  the 
Arabic  were  the  textbooks  of  the  Renaissance. 

"  Take  mathematics,  for  instance.  Of  all  the 
scientific  words  you  have  borrowed  from  us  — '  Alge- 
bra/ i  Chemistry/  *  Almanack/  '  Azimuth/  '  Nadir ' 
—  the  most  important  of  all  was  '  Zero.'  We  of  the 
East  were  the  first  to  understand  that  '  nothing ' — 
*  naught ' —  is  a  number.  You  call  your  numerals 
Arabic,  in  recognition  of  the  debt.  How  far  would 
you  have  gone  in  your  marvelous  computations  if  you 
had  not  learned  the  decimal  system  from  us?  Try, 
for  instance,  to  solve  a  simple  problem  in  long  division 
with  your  Western,  Roman  numerals. 

"We  have  little  science  in  the  East  to-day,  but 
clearly  it  is  not  because  we  are  incapable  of  it.  No," 
he  laughed  again,  "  the  sour  grapes  fable  hardly 
fits." 

"  Well,"  Lancaster  said,  "  you  scored  on  me  there. 
I  had  for  the  moment  forgotten  our  debt  to  your 
ancestors.  But  how  do  you  explain  the  present  de- 
cadence of  your  science?  " 

"  We  do  not  call  it  l  decadence/  "  Lane  replied 
quickly.  He  understood  that  the  best  way  to  hold 
their  attention  was  to  stir  their  combativeness. 
"  Decline  ?  No !  We  think  we  have  progressed.  We 
have  outgrown  science  —  mere  curiosity  about  the 
material  world. 

"  It  is  certainly  the  most  interesting  point  in  our 
history  —  perhaps  in  the  history  of  the  race.  The 
change  came  to  us  abruptly.  Al  Ghazzali  —  our 
Great  Reformer  —  died  in  1100.     He  had  been  a  pro- 


THE  CAFE  207 

fessor  in  the  University  of  Bagdad,  the  most  famous 
scholar  of  his  day.  His  colleagues,  recognizing  his 
tremendous  erudition,  called  him  '  The  Flower  of 
Philosophy/  At  that  time  Christendom  had  no 
scientists.  Quite  suddenly  he  gave  up  the  prestige  of 
his  honorable  position,  the  favor  of  the  worldly 
Caliph,  and  went  out  into  the  desert  to  meditate. 
He  became  a  Sufi  —  a  mystic.  If  you  are  interested 
you  can  find  two  of  his  books  translated  —  they  are 
called  i  The  Confessions  of  Al  Ghazzali  \  and  '  The 
Alchemy  of  Happiness.'  Since  his  day  —  under  his 
influence  —  the  great  mass  of  my  people  have  given 
up  scientific  research  and  have  sought  knowledge  in 
the  mystic  way  —  the  path  of  God. 

"  I  have  read  Al  Ghazzali's  writings  and  all  I 
could  find  by  his  immediate  followers  and  commenta- 
tors. As  near  as  I  can  understand  their  thought, 
they  were  bored  by  science  —  profoundly  disillu- 
sioned. Mohammed  had  told  us  to  revere  learning, 
that  the  search  for  knowledge  would  lead  us  to  God. 
But  their  study  of  the  stars,  of  medicine,  of  physics, 
of  numbers  had  not  brought  them  nearer  to  God.  It 
seemed  to  be  leading  in  the  opposite  direction.  So 
they  turned  their  back  on  the  Old  Learning  —  which 
the  We»t  was  to  call  'New'  when  they  discovered  it 
—  and  gave  their  attention  to  the  heart  of  man.  Af- 
ter  all,  the  simplest  man  is  more  like  God  than  the 
most  magnificent  star.  And  so  the  most  scientific 
people  the  race  had  produced  were  converted  to  mys- 
ticism." 

u  Well,"  McGee  asked,  "  do  you  think  it  was  a  wise 
change?  " 


208  THE  STRANGER 

"  That  leads  back  to  the  discussion  of  which  of  our 
civilizations  is  the  better  —  which  I  think  is  silly. 
We  have  wise  men  and  fools,  sinners  and  saints,  and 
so  have  you  —  men  to  be  proud  of  and  those  of  whom 
we  are  ashamed. 

"  Your  science  has  given  you  the  better  battleships 
—  without  doubt  —  the  dominance  of  the  world.  But 
that  is  not  argument.  You  cannot  convince  us  that 
way.  We  are  used  to  being  conquered.  You  are  not 
the  first  to  invade  our  shores,  to  rule  us  —  to  try  to 
educate  us.  You  will  not  be  the  first  to  fail  in  this 
amiable  enterprise.  The  Romans  tried  and  failed 
before  Mohammed  was  born.  The  Phoenicians  tried 
and  failed  before  Romulus  laid  the  foundations  of  the 
young  city  you  call  Eternal.  You  will  fail,  too.  The 
East  is  defenseless  —  but  very  stubborn. 

"  We  do  not  envy  you  the  power  of  your  artillery. 
In  fact,  of  all  your  marvelous  machinery,  it  is  that 
we  envy  least.  I  have  seen  regiments  of  white  sol- 
diers —  English  in  Egypt,  French  in  Morocco.  Their 
equipment  was  wonderful  —  scientific.  But  they 
seemed  dominated  by  it.  Which  were  the  more  en- 
slaved? Those  sweating  Westerners  with  their  heavy 
loads  of  machines  or  the  crowds  that  lined  the  streets, 
curious,  unafraid,  a  little  disdainful  —  the  people 
they  thought  they  had  conquered?  " 

No  one  answered  his  question,  and  Lane  switched 
back  to  the  former  subject. 

"  I  am  interested  to  read  how  some  of  your  scien- 
tists—  like  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  —  express  dissatisfac- 
tion with  the  results  of  science  and  turn  their  atten- 
tion to  the  mysteries  of  psychology." 


THE  CAFE  209 

"  That's  all  poppycock,"  Lancaster  said  emphati- 
cally. He  regarded  all  societies  for  psychical  research 
as  personal  insults.     "  It  has  no  significance." 

"  When  a  scientist  goes  in  for  that/'  McGee  said, 
agreeing  with  Lancaster  in  this  matter,  "  it  means 
old-age  —  second-childhood !  " 

"  We  have  great  respect  for  old  men  in  the  East," 
Lane  said. 

Lancaster  looked  up  at  the  clock.  He  had  a  pile 
of  work  on  his  desk  at  home,  which  he  had  planned 
to  attend  to  this  evening.  Lane  saw  the  direction  of 
his  glance,  understood  its  import,  and  made  a  new 
effort  to  hold  them. 

"  There  is  another  impressive  contrast  between  your 
civilization  and  ours  —  your  indifference  to  religion. 
My  people  are  so  instinctively  devout  that  we  do  not 
even  have  a  word  for  '  Atheist.'  We  have  terms  for 
1  Idolator,'  for i  Polytheist,'  for  <  Those  without  knowl- 
edge of  the  true  God,'  but  none  to  describe  an  intelli- 
gent person  who  does  not  believe  in  any  god." 

"  The  concept  of  God,"  Lancaster  said,  "  has 
dropped  out  of  our  intellectual  life  because  we  don't 
need  it.  It  is  no  longer  useful.  It  has  atrophied. 
In  the  old  days  men  imagined  gods  to  explain  the 
things  they  could  not  understand.  When  it  lightened, 
primitive  man  was  scared  by  the  flash.  It  seemed 
supernatural  to  him.  So  he  invented  a  god,  to  ex- 
plain it.  He  couldn't  understand  the  noise  of  the 
wind  in  the  trees,  so  he  pretended  it  was  the  gods 
singing.  But  now  we  do  understand  these  things. 
We  can  make  better  music  than  the  wind.  In  our 
laboratories  we  have  domesticated  electricity  —  the 


210  THE  STRANGER 

stuff  lightning  is  made  of.  The  laboratories  are  the 
burying  ground  of  the  gods. 

"  That's  what  science  means  —  the  twilight  of  the 
gods  —  the  elimination  from  our  habits  of  thought  of 
all  unproved  hypotheses.  You  say  the  East  has 
turned  away  from  science  intentionally.  Well,  I'm 
sorry  for  you  —  not  at  all  because  science  has  given 
us  the  better  battleships  —  but  because  it  shows  us 
how  to  live  reasonably  in  a  reasonable  universe.  It's 
Reason  versus  Unreason. 

"  You  say  that  the  Orientals  respect  old  age.  You 
also  respect  lunacy.  Modern  science  passes  a  very 
clear  verdict  on  the  prophets.  Mohammed  was  un- 
doubtedly a  great  statesman  and  probably  sincere 
in  his  religious  beliefs.  But  it  is  even  more  sure 
that  he  had  epileptic  fits.  It  was  the  same  with 
Christian  saints.  Most  of  them  were  unbalanced  — 
some  were  perverts. 

"  There  are  hundreds  of  people  in  our  asylums  to- 
day who  see  visions,  who  believe  —  just  as  sincerely 
as  Mohammed  or  St.  Francis  —  that  they  talk  with 
God.  Just  as  science  has  freed  us  from  reverence 
for  the  thunderstorm,  so  it  has  robbed  insanity  of  its 
glamour.  We  know  just  what  nerve  cells  are  affected, 
just  what  process  of  physiological  decay  is  in  process. 
We  don't  believe  nowadays  that  people  who  act 
queerly  or  froth  at  the  mouth  are  i  possessed  by  devils  ' 
nor  *  inspired  by  God.'  We  put  them  in  asylums, 
treat  them  kindly,  and  more  and  more  we  are  learning 
to  cure  them. 

"  Religion  asks  us  to  take  the  hysterical  ravings 
of  St.  Theresa  as  seriously  as  the  logic  of  Newton  and 


THE  CAFE  211 

Darwin.  The  Bible  says  that  '  out  of  the  mouths  of 
babes  and  sucklings '  God  has  perfected  His  wisdom. 
I  prefer  the  reasoned  convictions  of  sane  men  in  their 
prime.  I  don't  base  my  life  on  childish  prattle,  path- 
ological visions,  nor  old  men's  dotage." 

There  was  finality  in  Lancaster's  tone  as  though 
these  were  the  last  words  on  the  subject.  But  before 
any  one  could  speak,  he  went  on : 

"  Intelligent  people  to-day  don't  even  think  about 
God.  The  modern  mind  has  lost  the  habit  of  theolog- 
ical argument.  Once  there  was  need  for  militant 
freethinkers.  As  long  as  the  Church  was  strong 
enough  to  forbid  Galileo  to  think,  it  was  necessary 
to  fight  it,  to  argue  against  its  lying  fairy  tales,  to 
expose  its  crooked  hypocrisies.  We  had  to  waste 
time  from  serious  work  fighting  over  the  religious 
issue.  Every  one  who  thought  at  all  had  to  think 
about  this  God  problem.  But  the  Heaven  stormers  of 
a  generation  ago  did  their  work  well.  The  battle  is 
won.  They  succeeded,  if  not  in  absolutely  destroying 
a  belief  in  God,  at  least  in  overthrowing  the  tyranny 
of  the  idea. 

"  Now  we  can  go  on  with  the  serious  work  of  the 
world  without  wasting  time  and  energy  fighting  God. 
Most  of  us  have  forgotten  what  little  theology  we 
ever  knew.     We  can  afford  to  ignore  such  things." 

"  I  wonder?  "  Lane  said.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  ig- 
noring the  religious  impulse  is  very  like  putting  a 
fig  leaf  over  a  most  vital  part  of  life." 

Then,  to  restore  Lancaster's  good  humor,  he  began 
an  account  of  some  strange  primitive  religious  cere- 
monies he  had  observed  in  his  wanderings. 


212  THE  STRANGER 

It  was  not  often  that  any  of  his  little  audience  sat 
up  till  closing  time  in  a  cafe\  They  were  hardworking 
people,  who  rose  early.  But,  strangely  reluctant  to 
be  left  alone,  Lane  held  them  brilliantly  this  evening 
for  close  to  four  hours. 

He  gave  Lockwood  some  new  ideas  on  ^Esthetics  by 
calling  Japanese  art  the  apotheosis  of  artificiality. 
He  contrasted  their  landscape  gardening  with  that  of 
his  own  people.  The  Moor,  he  said,  had  sensibilities 
so  refined  that  he  could  satisfy  his  soul's  hunger  with 
natural  beauty.  He  argued  that  a  true  artistic  sense 
found  more  beauty  in  the  eternal  hills  than  the  clever- 
est Jap  could  contrive  with  a  careful  pile  of  stones 
and  a  handmade  fountain,  containing  preposterous, 
perverted  goldfish.  A  tuft  of  wild  narcissus,  he  held, 
or  a  garden  weed,  growing  as  God,  the  Great  Artist, 
had  planned  was  more  worthy  of  contemplation  than 
an  ingeniously  dwarfed  pine  tree  in  a  porcelain  pot. 

He  explained  to  Win  that  the  literature  of  his 
people  was  primarily  oral,  that  only  the  least  of  its 
riches  could  be  reduced  to  paper.  Whenever  Lancas- 
ter's attention  wavered,  he  recaught  it  with  some 
anecdote  about  Russia  or  some  ethnological  data  from 
Morocco. 

About  the  time  Helen  was  falling  to  sleep,  Al- 
phonse,  the  waiter,  began  to  turn  out  the  lights. 

On  the  sidewalk,  Lancaster  and  Frank  said  good 
night.  Win  and  Pete  and  Lane  set  off  toward  the 
Square.  Lane  was  on  the  point  of  inviting  them  to 
his  rooms  for  some  Turkish  coffee,  but  Pete  forestalled 
him  with  the  news  that  he  had  to  catch  a  seven 
o'clock  train  for  Albany. 


THE  CAFE  213 

After  this  Lane  could  not  ask  them  to  prolong  the 
stance.  So,  reluctantly,  he  said  good  night  in  the 
hallway  before  their  door  and  went  into  his  rooms 
alone. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  STRANGER'S  "  KEEF  " 

Alone  in  his  room,  Lane  took  off  his  collar  and 
shoes  for  comfort  and,  sitting  down  cross-legged  on 
the  couch,  he  composed  himself  to  immobility  and 
thought.  In  the  East  they  call  this  process  of  con- 
centrating the  mind  on  one  subject,  of  drugging  one- 
self with  thought,  "  making  keef."  He  began  the  in- 
evitable process  of  pondering  over  this  new  experience 
which  had  come  to  him.  He  had  postponed  the  ordeal 
as  long  as  possible,  but  now  there  seemed  no  further 
escape.  However  he  had  not  gotten  far  in  his  u  keef  " 
when  he  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  Ali  Zaky 
Bey. 

No  two  Westerners  so  utterly  dissimilar  could 
have  lived  together  in  peace.  The  Turks  and  Moors 
are  farther  apart  than  French  and  Germans.  The 
young  Bey  had  been  corrupted  by  a  course  of  study  in 
the  Ecole  des  hautes  sciences  politiques  at  Paris. 
He  had  lost  faith  in  the  god  of  his  fathers  and  had 
found  no  substitute.  Enthusiastically  accepting  all 
the  vices  of  our  Christian  civilization,  he  had  become 
a  sensualist  of  the  flesh.  He  was  less  typical  Eastern 
than  Lane  who  —  to  use  a  phrase  unknown  in  our 
Western  speech,  but  common  enough  in  Oriental 
tongues  —  had  remained  a  sensualist  of  the  spirit. 

214 


THE  STRANGER'S  "KEEF"  215 

But  in  remote  journeyings,  we  accept  strange  travel 
mates.  New  York  City  was  to  these  two  men  a 
momentary  halting  place  in  a  far  country.  More- 
over, the  pay  of  a  scholar  is  not  large  and,  by  com- 
bining forces  with  Ali  Zaky,  Lane  had  been  able  to 
escape  from  the  hideous  promiscuity  of  a  boarding 
house. 

This  evening  the  Turk  had  been  partaking  too  freely 
of  the  sparkling  vintage  of  the  Infidels.  It  happened 
all  too  frequently. 

"  I've  been  spending  a  gay  evening  with  the  shame- 
less ones,"  he  said  in  Turkish,  half  boastfully,  half 
ashamed.  Ali  Zaky's  title  and  his  red  tarboosh,  which 
lent  a  bizarre  touch  of  color  to  social  functions,  were 
definite  assets  in  certain  New  York  circles.  He  told 
of  his  evening's  entertainment  with  words  and  tones 
which  suggested  a  most  disreputable  affair.  In  real- 
ity it  had  been  a  dance  for  a  young  debutante  and 
what  we  are  in  the  habit  of  calling  "  respectable." 

"  You  make  a  mistake,  Hadji  Kassim,"  he  said. 
"  In  the  land  of  the  Roumi  do  as  the  Roumi  do.  Has 
not  the  poet  said,  i  Beauty  hath  no  religion '  ?  And 
some  of  the  women  of  the  Franks  are  beautiful. 
There  was  one  to-night  —  the  daughter  of  the  host, 
who  resembled  a  Circassian  slave  girl  of  my  father's. 
Hair  like  a  flood  of  sunlight  —  and  half  naked. 
What  a  show  she  made  of  herself !  She  danced  with 
all  men  who  asked  her,  and  smiled  at  them  wantonly 
when  they  embraced  her.  It  was  most  amusing  to 
observe.  My  mother  —  ha !  ha  —  she  does  not  think 
highly  of  the  women  of  the  Infidels,  but  if  I  should  tell 
her  what  my  eyes  have  seen  to-night  she  would  not  be- 


216  THE  STRANGER 

lieve  it.  No,  she  would  say  such  shamelessness  was 
impossible.  You  should  come  with  me  some  night, 
Hadji  Kassim.  You  should  get  acquainted  with  these 
Christian  women." 

"  I  dined  with  one  to-night." 

"  And  was  she  half  unclothed?  " 

"  No,"  Lane  said  sternly.  "  She  is  not  a  shameless 
one."  And  then  he  lied  deliberately.  "  She  is  my 
betrothed." 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  Hadji,"  Ali  Zaky  exclaimed 
in  real  embarrassment.     "  I  did  not  know." 

Although  he  had  the  Turkish  contempt  for  all  other 
Islamic  peoples,  although  he  knew  that  Hadji  Kassim 
was  a  child  of  the  despised  Franks,  although  his  views 
on  most  matters  had  been  sadly  twisted  by  his  dis- 
ordered life  among  the  Unbelievers,  he  knew  that  his 
roommate  was  a  good  man.  And  he  respected  piety, 
even  if  he  did  not  practice  it.  He  might  soil  him- 
self with  drunkenness,  he  might,  in  order  to  appear 
liberal-minded,  scoff  at  the  beliefs  of  his  own  people, 
he  might  make  free  with  every  Koranic  law,  but  he 
was,  at  bottom,  a  Muslim. 

Lane  had  lied,  knowing  that  so  he  could  protect 
the  woman  he  loved  from  Ali  Zaky's  insults,  insults 
which  he  flung  carelessly  at  all  Christian  women,  in- 
sults of  which  "  shameless  "  was  the  least.  The  Bey 
would  not  again  refer  to  the  u  "harem  " — the  woman 
who  was  "  reserved."  But  this  evening  the  cham- 
pagne had  unduly  loosed  the  reins  of  his  curiosity. 

"  Is  it,"  he  asked,  "  that  you  will  become  a  rene- 
gade? " 

"Why  should  I?     Did  not  the  Prophet  himself  — 


THE  STRANGER'S  "KEEF"  217 

on  him  be  peace  —  take  a  woman  of  the  Franks  to 
wife?  " 

"  Is  it  that  you  will  live  in  this  detestable  land?  " 

"  It  has  not  been  decided." 

Ali  Zaky  Bey1  did  not  often  use  the  formulae  of 
his  religion.  He  had  lost  the  habit.  But  some  ob- 
scure impulse  stirred  him  to  put  out  his  hands  as  if 
holding  the  Holy  Book  and  to  recite  Fatihah. 

"Bis-m-illah! 

Praise  be  to  God,  the  Lord  of  all  creatures, 

The  most  Compassionate  of  the  Merciful, 

King  of  the  Judgment  Day. 

Thee  do  we  worship  and  of  Thee  do  we  ask  guidance. 

Lead  us  in  the  True  Path, 

In  the  Way  of  those  on  whom  is  Thy  Grace. 

Not  in  the  Path  of  the  unrighteous 

Nor  in  that  of  those  who  have  gone  astray." 

"  May  the  rich  blessing  of  the  Compassionate  be 
upon  thee,  Hadji  Kassim,  and  upon  thy  Beloved." 

And  the  Bey  went  to  his  room. 

The  one  who  had  been  blessed  bestirred  himself  to 
draw  a  taborette  close  to  his  couch  and  to  light  a 
hubble-bubble  pipe.  He  settled  down  once  more  to 
that  process  of  making  *  keef/'  a  frame  of  mind  in- 
comprehensible to  us,  which  Arab  poets  eulogize  under 
the  term  "  enjoying  dejection." 

Love  had  come  to  him  and  he  luxuriated  in  the 
melancholy  its  hopelessness  demanded.  He  was  not 
disturbed  by  the  Bey's  fear  that  this  Christian  woman 
would  ask  him  to  repudiate  his  faith.  Nor  was  he 
depressed  over  the  problem  of  where  love  would  ask 
him  to  go.     Inevitably  he  yearned  for  his  own  coun- 


218  THE  STRANGER 

try,  for  his  high  valley  in  the  mountains  of  Glawi, 
with  snow  peaks  all  around,  or  for  the  little  house  in 
Marakesh,  where  at  prayer  time  one  could  hear  the 
minor  chant  of  the  blind  children  in  the  Zaw'ia  of 
their  patron,  Sidi  bel  Abbas.  From  his  house  in 
Marakesh  the  view  of  the  Atlas  range  was  broader, 
if  more  distant.  The  skyscrapers  which  men  have 
built  are  indeed  wonderful  —  but  God's  mountains  are 
wondrous. 

However  love,  as  he  understood  it,  entirely  tran- 
scends geography.  He  wanted  to  be  with  her,  to  com- 
mune with  her.  Where  their  paradise  was  laid  did 
not  matter.  Yes,  he  would  have  preferred  his  moun- 
tains, but  the  vivid  intimacy  with  her  of  which  he 
dreamed  would  have  glorified  even  the  hideousness 
of  a  city  flat. 

It  was  not  such  material  considerations  which  ap- 
palled him,  but  all  the  subtile  psychological  impli- 
cations which  surround  love  —  so  vastly  different  in 
the  East  and  West.  Just  as  almost  all  our  travelers 
who  have  told  of  Oriental  life  have  been  baffled  by 
the  Eastern  attitude  towards  love,  sometimes  at- 
tracted by  the  rich  figures  of  their  amorous  verse, 
sometimes  repelled  by  their  frank,  biblical  eroticism, 
but  never  understanding,  so  Lane  was  baffled  by  what 
he  had  seen  in  the  West. 

He  sat  there  the  night  through  smoking  out  and 
refilling  his  hubble-bubble  pipe,  his  soul  a  quiet  flame 
of  longing  for  this  woman,  who  understood.  His  life, 
which  he  now  saw  had  been  aimless,  merely  inquisi- 
tive, had  found  a  center.  All  his  vagrant  impulses, 
his  vagabond  desires,  had  been  unified. 


THE  STRANGER'S  "KEEF"  219 

But  what  hope  could  he  have  of  love's  fulfillment? 
There  were  so  many  things  he  did  not  comprehend. 
Above  all  he  was  perplexed  by  the  celibacy  he  saw 
about  him.  He  was  a  rarity  among  his  own  people, 
because,  already  over  thirty,  he  had  no  children.  Win 
and  Pete,  both  older  than  he,  were  unmarried.  He 
had  not  been  told  of  the  strange  relation  between 
Irene  and  Lancaster.  The  Lockwoods  were  childless. 
Why  so  many  unmarried  women?  Helen  must  have 
been  sought  in  marriage.  Apparently,  she  preferred 
celibacy  and  childlessness.  And  why  was  Eunice  un- 
married? Many  men,  he  thought,  must  have  loved 
her.  And  if  she  had  refused  men  of  her  own  people, 
what  chance  had  a  stranger? 

More  than  once  he  had  heard  slighting,  scornful 
remarks  about  matrimony.  They  threw  jibes  at  Pete 
because,  although  he  was  nearing  forty,  he  was  be- 
trothed —  as  though  he  had  betrayed  the  ideals  of  the 
group,  lowered  himself  in  some  way.  Lane  did  not 
understand. 

The  real  obstacle  which  stood  in  the  way  of  his  de- 
sire did  not  even  occur  to  him.  Eunice's  confession 
of  ill  health  had  not  daunted  him.  Of  course  if  he 
had  been  a  poor  peasant,  and  had  needed  a  wife  to 
hitch  beside  an  ass  to  his  plow,  he  would  have  wanted 
a  robust  wife.  But  fortunately  there  was  no  such 
need. 

And  so  he  sat  in  exquisite  dejection  until  dawn. 

With  the  early  light,  he  shook  himself  out  of  his 
reverie  to  serve  her.  She  wanted  those  pictures  of 
the  Children's  F6te  at  Marakesh.  This  trifling  thing 
was  something  to  do  for  her.     He  made  long  and  care- 


220  THE  STRANGER 

fill  explanatory  notes  on  each  photograph.  About 
nine  he  finished  the  task  and,  summoning  a  messenger 
boy,  sent  the  package  and  his  notes  to  her  address. 

He  might,  of  course,  have  taken  them  himself.  In 
not  doing  so  he  obeyed  a  complex  of  motives.  Partly 
it  was  because  he  wanted  to  gain  time,  the  procras- 
tination of  the  East.  He  could  not  rush  toward  this 
Holy  Adventure.  But  more  it  was  because  he  wanted 
the  word  to  come  from  her. 

Having  grown  up  among  people  who  are  self-con- 
scious and  outspoken  to  themselves  in  regard  to  their 
emotions,  he  had  no  doubt  that  Eunice  would  under- 
stand how  he  felt,  in  the  same  certain  way  she  had 
understood  him  in  less  obvious  matters.  He  had  no 
conception  of  the  manifold  inhibitions  which  would 
keep  her  from  admitting  such  things  to  herself.  He 
felt,  just  as  our  most  modern  psychologists  are  tell- 
ing us,  that  it  is  unnatural  to  suppress  such  emo- 
tions. There  is  very  little  hysteria  in  the  East.  He 
thought  that  Eunice  would  think  of  love  in  the  same, 
simple,  direct  way  he  did. 

It  must  be  evident  to  her  that  he  loved  her. 
"  Surely  it  must  be  evident,"  he  would  have  said,  if 
any  doubt  had  entered  his  mind.  She  could  see  that 
he  loved  her.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  tell  her  this 
in  words  —  as  a  matter  of  information.  It  would 
have  seemed  to  him  grotesque  to  do  so. 

She  would  know  and  understand.  Love  had  no 
meaning  to  him,  if  it  were  not  mutual.  And  seeing 
things  thus,  feeling  so  much  at  sea  among  our  Western 
ways,  he  waited  for  word  from  her. 


CHAPTER  XV 

FRANK   GOES   HOME 

Of  Lane's  little  audience  in  the  caf6,  Frank  had 
been  the  one  most  impressed.  It  was  not  what  had 
been  said  to  him  directly  which  mattered.  His  artis- 
tic faiths  were  too  firm  to  be  shaken.  Nor  had  he 
been  influenced  by  the  theological  discussion.  He 
was  too  simple-minded  a  pagan  to  care  whether  God 
be  one  or  three.  His  own  goddess  was  so  very  real 
to  him  that  he  did  not  worry  about  other  deities. 
Nor  was  it  the  controversy  over  the  water  communism 
of  the  Berbers  which  had  impressed  him.  He  called 
himself  a  Socialist,  but  he  was  not  interested  in  its1 
economic  implications.  The  life  about  him  seemed 
so  full  of  hideousness  that  he  felt  akin  to  any  one 
who  preached  revolt.  He  had  been  pleased  to  hear 
Lane  so  calmly  speak  slightingly  of  science.  He  did 
not  know  much  about  the  matter,  but  he  hated  science, 
because  the  age  in  which  he  lived  and  suffered  is  called 
the  Scientific  Age. 

Of  more  importance  than  any  one  part  of  the 
Stranger's  discourse  had  been  its  totality,  its  general 
criticism  of  the  organization  and  ideals  of  Christen- 
dom. In  sharp  contrast  to  all  Frank's  friends,  this 
man,  Lane,  did  not  take  our  Western  civilization  for 
granted.  He  cast  doubts  on  the  assumptions  on 
which  it  is  based. 

221 


222  THE  STRANGER 

In  a  vague  way,  which  he  would  not  have  expressed 
in  words  even  to  himself,  Frank  felt  oppressed  and 
outraged.  And,  if  he  accepted  the  structure  of  life 
about  him  —  took  it  for  granted,  as  his  friends  did  — 
he  could  find  no  escape  from  his  predicament.  This 
Stranger  questioned  not  only  the  superstructure  of 
our  society,  but  its  very  foundations.  This  was  what 
thrilled  Frank,  and  disturbed  him. 

His  silent,  smoldering  pain  was  intensified  by  the 
fact  that  no  one  took  note  of  it.  Even  his  nearest 
friends  did  not  recognize,  or  pretended  not  to  recog- 
nize, the  tragedy  of  his  life.  They  could  not  look 
things  frankly  in  the  face  without  finding  evidence  in 
conflict  with  all  their  assumptions  —  the  things  they 
took  for  granted. 

Unf ulfillment !  Arrested  development!  He  was 
sore  with  the  knowledge  of  what  he  might  have  been. 
His  pictures,  which  people  praised  from  his  "  Study 
in  Moonlight  Grays  "  in  the  Corcoran  to  his  portrait 
of  Lillian  in  the  Metropolitan,  all  three,  he  knew,  had 
been  only  a  beginning,  the  first  stuttering  prayers  he 
had  learned  to  lisp  — "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 
Men  praised  these  things  of  his,  these  first  essays  at 
devotion.  Why  was  he  not  left  free  to  pray  now?  — 
in  his  maturity !     He  suffered  from  psalms  unsung. 

Life  had  laid  hold  on  him,  had  interrupted,  silenced 
his  devotions.  Life,  the  organized  life  of  civilization, 
had  gagged  him.  Society  was  an  Inquisition  which 
forbade  him  to  worship  as  he  would. 

This  Stranger  cast  doubts  on  all  the  sanctions  to 
which  he  was  expected  to  submit. 

If  it  had  not  been  a  bitter  winter  night,  he  would 


FRANK  GOES  HOME  223 

have  sat  for  a  while  in  the  Square  to  think  things 
out.  He  did  not  want  to  go  home.  He  knew  what 
to  expect.  But  it  was  too  cold  to  tramp  the  streets, 
the  cafes  were  all  closed.  What  is  there  for  a  respect- 
able member  of  society  to  do  when  he  has  been  out  in- 
ordinately late  but  to  go  home  to  his  wife?  Frank 
could  think  of  nothing  else  to  do.  So  he  went  —  as 
a  sheep  to  the  shambles. 

He  let  himself  quietly  into  the  house.  He  had  a 
furtive  impulse  to  take  off  his  shoes  and  try  to  reach 
his  room  without  attracting  Lillian's  attention.  But 
he  hated  sneakiness.  He  made  unnecessary  noise  as 
he  went  upstairs. 

"Frank." 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  Where  have  you  been?  " 

"  Over  at  the  Santa  Fe." 

He  came  on  up  the  stairs  more  quietly. 

"  Have  you  been  drinking?  " 

"  I'm  quite  sober." 

In  fact,  since  his  marriage,  Frank  had  always  been 
sober.  But  Lillian,  having  heard  tales  of  his  youth- 
ful wildness  and  knowing  he  was  unhappy,  was  mor- 
bidly afraid  he  would  take  to  drink  again. 

"  Come  here,"  she  called. 

He  went  into  her  bedroom.  Even  her  expression  of 
vexation  could  not  rob  her  face  of  its  beauty.  Frank 
realized  this  in  a  queer,  impersonal  way,  as  though  it 
were  a  fact  about  some  one  else's  wife. 

"  It's  after  one  —  I've  been  horribly  worried." 

''Why  should  you  be  worried,  dear?  I'm  able  to 
find  my  way  around.     I  won't  get  lost." 


224  THE  STRANGER 

"  Well,  kiss  me  good  night." 

It  was  so  humiliatingly  obvious ! 

"  Oh,  that's  unnecessary  —  my  breath  smells  of 
whisky,  all  right." 

"You  said  you'd  not  been  drinking." 

"  If  said  I  was  quite  sober.  If  you  want  the  exact 
statistics,  between  8.30  and  1  o'clock  I  had  two  glasses 
of  coffee,  two  Scotch  highballs." 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  all  this  time?  " 

"  Talking  —  a  little.     Listening  mostly." 

"  Four  hours  —  steady  talking  —  what  about?  " 

He  could  not  have  reproduced  that  conversation  to 
her  any  more  than  he  could  have  explained  to  the 
King  of  the  Cannibal  Islands  the  meaning  of  the 
verses  he  had  quoted  from  Wilde.  That  was  the 
heartbreak  of  it  —  she  couldn't  understand. 
That  was  the  thing  which  kept  him  from  putting 
his  arms  about  her  and  kissing  away  her  vexa- 
tion. 

"Lane  came  in,"  he  said.  "And  told  us  about 
Morocco.  Win  and  Pete  were  there,  too.  So  —  even 
if  you  can't  trust  Lancaster  not  to  get  me  drunk  — 
you  see  it  was  a  respectable  affair." 

"  You  might  have  brought  them  over  here.  I  was 
all  alone." 

In  fact  Lillian  would  not  have  objected  so  much 
if  he  had  confessed  that  he  had  taken  a  chorus 
girl  out  to  a  champagne  supper.  She  knew  she  did 
not  have  to  worry  about  any  other  woman  misleading 
him.  She  had  him  there.  But  she  was  desperately 
jealous  of  his  men  friends  —  especially  of  Win.  She 
was  hostile  to  all  his  interests  in  life,  which  she  did 


FRANK  GOES  HOME  225 

not  understand.     She  felt  that  his  mind  ought  to 
stay  at  home  even  more  than  his  body. 

"  You  leave  me  alone/'  he  said,  "  every  once  in  a 
while  to  go  and  see  your  people.  Turn  about  is  fair 
play." 

He  tried  to  make  this  statement  sound  light  and 
conciliating. 

"  You  won't  come  with  me,"  she  said,  refusing  to 
be  mollified. 

"Why  should  I?"  he  retorted,  his  will  to  make 
peace  suddenly  paralyzed.  "  I  don't  speak  German. 
Your  parents  prefer  to  use  it.  I'm  in  the  way.  Be- 
sides, your  mother  doesn't  like  me." 

"  It  isn't  right  for  you  to  say  that,"  Lillian  sat  up 
in  bed.  Still  Frank  was  conscious  that  she  was  beau- 
tiful, although  he  knew  she  was  launched  on  the  sub- 
ject he  felt  least  disposed  to  argue.  "  She  would  like 
you  all  right,  but  she  is  disappointed  in  you.  She 
was  so  ambitious  for  me  to  marry  well.  In  the  old 
days,  when  we  were  poor,  it  wasn't  so  bad.  But  now, 
mother  is  always  thinking " 

"Well,  I'll  say  good  night.  I'm  sorry  I've  disap- 
pointed your  mother." 

"  If  you  really  were  sorry,  if  you  cared  at  all  for 
her  feelings  —  or  mine  —  you'd  try  to  succeed.  You 
could,  you " 

But  Frank  suddenly  stiffened  up. 

"  My  dear,  we  won't  discuss  that  at  this  hour.  It's 
time  both  of  us  were  asleep." 

He  turned  to  leave  her.  There  had  been  in  his 
voice  a  tone,  which  broke  out  at  long  intervals,  which 
always  frightened  her  into  silence. 


226  THE  STRANGER 

She  was  very  angry.  More  than  he  realized,  per- 
haps, because  he  had  not  kissed  her  good  night.  She 
lay  awake  a  long  time,  feeling  herself  very  ill  used. 

Frank  also  was  angry,  not  at  her,  but  at  the  inexpli- 
cable muddle  of  life,  which  had  bound  two  such  dis- 
cordant people  together.  He  was  a  good  deal  more 
sorry  for  her  than  angry  at  her.  In  the  years  since 
they  had  married,  he  had  become  acquainted  with  her. 
With  i  a  very  profound  realization  of  the  values  at 
stake  for  him,  he  had  studied  her,  her  character  and 
the  environment  which  had  molded  it.  He  had  tried 
to  understand  the  "why"  of  the  things  about  her 
which  were  unlovely. 

The  same  Fate  which  had  molded  her  perfect  ex- 
terior, had,  in  a  mood  of  cruel  irony,  arranged  to  warp 
what  was  inside.  Thirty  odd  years  before,  her  father, 
Otto  von  Lehrenburg,  having  just  won  his  doctor's  de- 
gree with  highest  honors  in  the  University  of  Berlin, 
had  fallen  tempestuously  in  love  with,  and  had  mar- 
ried, Marta  Hoose.  She  was  very  beautiful,  but  so 
much  the  social  inferior  of  the  proud  house  of  Von 
Lehrenburg  that  his  father  in  a  fit  of  rage  had  dis- 
owned him.  A  young  doctor  in  physics,  with  no 
means  and  a  socially  inexpedient  wife,  had  meager 
prospects  in  Germany,  no  matter  how  clever  he  might 
be. 

So  Dr.  von  Lehrenburg  had  come  to  America.  For 
three  years  he  and  his  family  lived  below  the  poverty 
line.  The  first  child,  a  boy,  had  died.  Then,  forced 
by  misery  and  the  birth  of  Lillian,  he  had  sold,  at  hold- 
up terms,  an  induction  coil  of  his  invention  to  one  of 
our  largest  electrical  companies.    The  number  of  his 


FRANK  GOES  HOME  227 

patent  is  to  be  read  on  almost  every  telephone  instru- 
ment in  the  world.  It  had  been  worth  several  thou- 
sand times  as  much  to  the  company  as  they  had  paid 
him. 

The  directors  of  the  company  had  eased  their  con- 
sciences by  offering  him  a  very  good  salary.  But  the 
contract  gave  them  the  right  to  any  new  inventions  he 
might  patent.  With  sullen  obstinacy,  feeling  that 
they  had  dealt  dishonestly  with  him  in  the  first  in- 
stance, he  refused  to  accept  their  offer.  From  then  on 
he  had  lived  the  precarious  life  of  an  inventor  who 
lacks  money  to  capitalize  his  ideas. 

During  the  years  they  had  been  in  America  his  in- 
come had  averaged  perhaps  two  thousand  dollars. 
Some  years  it  was  more,  some  much  less.  So  the 
family  had  been  migratory.  Mrs.  von  Lehrenburg 
had  social  ambitions.  Whenever  there  was  money  in 
hand,  she  insisted  on  moving  to  a  better  apartment. 
She  was  continually  nagging  her  husband  to  accept 
the  offer  of  the  electric  company.  Then  they  could 
have  lived  on  the  Drive.  She  had  no  comprehension 
of  the  point  of  honor  which  made  him  refuse  to  accept 
crumbs  from  those  he  thought  had  stolen  his  birth- 
right. She  had  no  confidence  in  his  hope  of  doing 
better  by  some  future  invention. 

Many  little  girls  have  a  joyous  life  whose  fathers 
earn  much  less  than  Dr.  von  Lehrenburg.  But  her 
mother  had  brought  Lillian  up  to  feel  that  she  was 
shamefully  misused  by  fate.  She  had  learned  from 
her  mother  to  think  that  her  father  was  ineffectual, 
pig-headed,  cruelly  selfish. 

It  had  from  earliest  childhood  been  impressed  on 


228  THE  STRANGER 

her  that  her  only  hope  of  escape  from  similarly  sordid 
surroundings  was  by  marrying  more  wisely  than  her 
mother  had  done.  She  had  heard  her  mother  bemoan 
her  folly  in  marrying  a  fool  on  an  average  of  at  least 
once  a  day.  Marriage  — "  a  good  marriage  " —  was 
the  one  salvation  offered.  Her  face  was  her  only  for- 
tune. 

Lillian  appreciated  this  fortune  of  hers  at  its  full 
value.  When  she  was  a  little  girl,  strangers  stopped 
her  on  the  street  and  went  into  ecstasies  over  her.  As 
she  had  grown  to  young  womanhood,  she  had  been 
made  continuously  conscious  of  her  beauty.  It 
created  a  noticeable  sensation  for  her  to  enter  a  street 
car.  Men  lost  interest  in  their  newspapers,  in  base- 
ball scores,  and  Wall  Street  reports. 

Her  education  had  been  a  farce.  Whenever  the 
family  moved  into  better  quarters,  she  was  sent  to 
some  cheap  private  school,  which  her  mother  fondly 
supposed  to  be  ladylike.  When  the  family  had  to 
move  down  in  the  social  scale,  Lillian  was  taken  out 
of  school.  The  public  schools,  where  she  might  have 
learned  something,  were  considered  by  her  mother  im- 
possibly vulgar.  She  had  learned  little  at  home. 
The  table  talk  had  consisted  of  wrangles  over  how 
much  money  should  go  to  her  father's  experiments 
and  how  much  to  her  mother's  desperate  efforts  to  get 
up  in  the  world. 

The  one  ambition  which  Lillian  had  learned  from 
her  mother  —  the  only  one  she  could  have  formed  in 
such  circumstances  —  was  to  marry  a  man  with 
enough  money  to  save  her  from  the  petty,  haggling  dis- 
tress she  had  always  known  at  home. 


FRANK  GOES  HOME  229 

Unfortunately  that  naked  little  imp,  Cupid,  had 
looked  in  through  the  window  of  the  Studio  while 
she  posed  for  Frank  and  had  shot  arrows  at  them. 

It  had  been  the  second  day  after  the  "  private  view," 
when  he  had  shown  the  picture  to  his  friends,  that 
Frank  had  asked  her  to  marry  him.  The  idea  had 
occurred  to  him  suddenly.  As  he  had  boxed  up  his 
picture  for  shipment  and  had  realized  that  he  would 
no  longer  have  even  this  shadow  of  her  beauty  to  con- 
template, he  had  felt  terribly  lonely.  The  thought 
of  her  passing  out  of  his  life  permanently  had  been 
more  than  he  could  bear. 

Lillian  had  played  for  this.  Against  her  better 
judgment  she  had  stumbled  —  one  could  hardly  say 
"  fallen  " —  in  love  with  him.  She  was  vain,  and 
Frank,  who  was  a  specialist  in  such  matters,  said  she 
was  the  most  beautiful  woman  he  had  ever  seen.  She 
was  immensely  flattered,  she  felt  that  she  had  never 
been  properly  admired  before.  There  was  a  strange 
and  intoxicating  quality  in  his  almost  worshipful 
adoration.  She  was  more  than  flattered  by  it,  it 
stirred  her  like  a  caress.  At  night,  alone  in  her  room, 
the  thought  of  it  brought  color  to  her  cheeks.  And  he 
had  seen  only  her  face. 

The  very  impersonality  of  his  admiration  piqued 
her.  He  studied  her  beauty  intensely,  but  he  never 
looked  at  her.  It  was  necessary  to  stir  him  into  a 
more  human  attitude.     Her  pride  was  engaged. 

This  was  slippery  ground.  Before  she  realized  it, 
her  emotions  had  the  whip  hand  over  her  reason  and 
was  ordering  it  to  find  plausible  arguments  to  support 
her  desire. 


230  THE  STRANGER 

In  an  uncertain,  qualified  way  she  respected  him, 
or  rather  she  noticed  the  respect  in  which  others  held 
him.  From  her  haphazard  reading  of  novels,  she  had 
decided  that  there  were  three  forms  of  distinction: 
wealth,  social  position,  and  artistic  attainments.  She 
had  no  idea  of  acquiring  any  of  these  distinctions  by 
her  own  effort,  that  was  a  husband's  job.  She  was 
a  hard-headed  young  person;  she  discounted  her 
mother's  large  projects.  She  did  not  really  hope  to 
get  a  millionaire  or  marry  into  the  Four  Hundred. 
Frank's  artistic  distinction  was  generally  recognized. 
So  he  became  a  possibility. 

She  thought  him  a  fool  in  money  matters.  The 
geniuses  in  her  novels  always  were.  But  she  told  her- 
self that  with  a  little  management  this  could  be  over- 
come. She  saw  no  reason  why  painting  should  not 
be  profitable.  She  had  read  of  the  great  prices  some 
portrait  painters  charged. 

She  had  allowed  herself  to  daydream,  at  times,  of 
gilded  young  men  from  Newport,  who  owned  polo 
ponies  and  yachts.  But  generally  she  kept  her  feet 
solidly  on  earth.  It  is  only  in  the  movies  that  the 
millionaire  marries  the  penniless  beauty.  Frank  had 
appeared  eligible.  And  besides  these  cold  calcula- 
tions, it  was  a  fact,  a  new  fact  in  her  life,  that  he  had 
charmed  her.  In  the  long  hours  in  the  Studio  he 
had,  all  unconsciously,  cast  a  spell  over  her.  He  was 
lovable.  So  she  had,  as  our  grandmothers  said,  "  set 
her  cap  for  him." 

But  nothing  which  she  had  done,  or  might  have 
done,  to  attract  his  attention  had  mattered.  He  had 
been   entirely   oblivious   of  her  wiles.     During   the 


FRANK  GOES  HOME  231 

months  he  had  worked  at  her  portrait,  he  had  never 
thought  of  her  as  a  human  being  —  except  with  vexa- 
tion, when  she  had  come  late,  or  had  moved  at  critical 
moments.  She  had  been  for  him  a  messenger  from 
his  goddess.  It  was  not  till  the  picture  was  finished 
and  she  was  gone  that  he  saw  her.  It  was  her  absence 
that  attracted  his  attention. 

She  was,  of  course,  pleased,  more  pleased  and  ex- 
cited than  she  had  expected,  when  he  came  to  tell  her 
of  his  love,  but  she  kept  herself  well  in  hand.  In 
reply  to  his  breathless  entreaty  to  come  with  him  to 
the  Studio,  never  to  leave  him  again  she  calmly  asked 
what  income  he  could  offer  her.  Of  course  this  ques- 
tion seemed  irrelevant  to  him.  But  she  made  her 
position  very  clear.  She  said  she  loved  him.  It  was 
not  altogether  untrue,  only  she  did  not  know  what 
love  might  be.  If  he  loved  her,  he  would  want  her 
to  be  happy.  Her  own  life  and  her  mother's  had  been 
made  miserable  by  money  worries,  by  her  father's 
selfish  refusal  to  make  them  comfortable.  Frank 
could  earn  money  if  he  wanted  to.  If  he  did  not  care 
enough  for  her  to  insure  a  decent  income  —  as  he 
so  easily  could  —  how  could  he  expect  her  to  trust 
herself  and  her  children  to  his  keeping?  She  would 
rather  die  a  heartbroken  old  maid  than  have  such  a 
forlorn  home  life  as  her  mother's  had  been. 

All  this,  especially  the  reference  to  the  imminence 
of  children,  put  the  marriage  proposition  before  Frank 
much  more  concretely  than  it  had  appeared  to  him 
before.  He  had  been  thinking  of  a  more  complete,  a 
more  constant  and  intimate  adoration.  But  now, 
seeing  Lillian  as  never  before,  as  something  not  to 


232  THE  STRANGER 

paint  but  to  caress,  his  blood  took  fire.  Caution, 
foresight,  even  fidelity  to  the  goddess  he  had  wor- 
shiped so  long  took  flight  before  the  immemorial  urge 
of  generation. 

Something  new  had  crashed  into  his  life.  He 
wanted  Lillian  now,  more  than  fame,  more  than  the 
joy  of  the  pictures  he  had  dreamed  of  painting,  more 
even  than  communion  with  his  goddess.  And  —  the 
age-old  transformation  trick  was  turned.  Lillian 
seemed  to  him  the  Spirit  of  Beauty  embodied,  his 
very  goddess  incarnate.  Their  worship  seemed  iden- 
tical. Her  request  was  a  new  duty  laid  on  him  by 
his  ancient  cult. 

One  word  of  hers,  "  children/'  had  been  an  incan- 
tation. He  would  have  a  child!  Other  people,  of 
course,  had  children  and  it  was  a  natural  common- 
place. But  his  child.  He  and  Lillian  together  —  it 
was  a  new  and  amazingly  thrilling  conception  of  crea- 
tion. Writing  poems,  composing  symphonies,  paint- 
ing, all  this  seemed  suddenly  pallid  to  him.  He  would 
have  a  child!  Second  thought  might  possibly  have 
brought  caution,  if  Lillian  alone  had  been  concerned. 
But  with  this  magic  word,  she  had  him  in  thrall. 

He  asked  her  the  minimum  income  on  which  she 
would  marry  him.  Not  realizing  the  strength  of  her 
witchery,  fearing  that  he  might  balk,  thinking  her 
first  demand  would  be  only  an  opening  wedge,  she 
had  said  five  thousand.  He  promised  to  arrange  that. 
And  then,  triumphantly  and  joyously,  she  let  him  kiss 
her. 

When  he  left  her,  he  did  not  hesitate.  He  did  not 
ask  himself  whether  he  were  doing  well  or  ill.     It 


FRANK  GOES  HOME  233 

was  so  evidently  something  he  had  to  do.  It  had 
been  decided  when  he  pledged  himself  to  a  regular 
income.  In  a  flash  he  had  realized  the  impossibility 
of  compromise.  He  could  no  more  ask  a  wage  of  his 
goddess  than  he  could  accept  pay  for  loving  Lillian. 

He  went  directly  to  Bruce  Lyons  and  came  away 
with  the  manuscript  of  his  next  "thriller."  Of 
course  he  loathed  the  idea  of  illustrating  it.  But  in 
the  exaltation  of  those  days  it  had  seemed  to  him  that 
Lillian's  voice  brought  the  commands  of  his  goddess. 

The  first  thing  which  had  tempered  his  enthusiasm 
—  the  first  suspicion  which  came  to  him  of  the  exist- 
ence of  a  fly  in  the  ointment  —  was  the  difficulty  of 
telling  his  friends.  He  loved  Win  as  Jonathan  had 
loved  David,  and  he  knew  what  Win  thought  of  Lil- 
lian. The  marriage  would  sadly  interfere  with  their 
dear  intimacy.  From  day  to  day  he  had  delayed 
breaking  the  news,  but  at  last  it  had  to  be  told. 

There  had  been  a  wild  quarrel  at  home  when  Lillian 
had  announced  her  engagement.  Her  mother  did  not 
want  her  to  marry  a  mere  artist.  She  had  her  mind 
set  on  a  millionaire.  And  now  —  just  when  the  por- 
t  rait  was  finished,  when  within  a  few  weeks  her  daugh- 
ter's extraordinary  beauty  would  be  advertised  in 
every  Sunday  newspaper  in  the  country  —  seemed  to 
her  a  peculiarly  unfortunate  time  for  her  to  throw 
herself  away.  But  Father  von  Lehenburg  had  risen 
up  wia th fully  and  exploded  in  German.  "  Remember 
what  horrors  happened  to  us  because  my  father  would 
not  consent  to  our  marriage.  We  will  have  none  of 
that  Old  World  tyranny  here.  Lillian  will  marry 
whoever  she  wants  to." 


234  THE  STRANGER 

Lillian  had  been  somewhat  shaken  by  her  mother's 
opposition,  but  she  had  expected  it  and  discounted  it. 
She  was  a  hard-headed  young  person,  she  did  not  share 
her  mother's  large  dreams,  she  thought  that  Frank 
could  easily  earn  a  lot  of  money,  and  besides  she  did 
care  for  him.  Perhaps  half  his  charm  for  her  lay  in 
the  fact  that  she  did  not  understand  him  at  all.  She 
thought  that  it  would  be  easy  to  manage  him. 

At  first  she  had  been  happy  with  him.  It  was  very 
wonderful  to  be  so  much  adored.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  she  began  to  take  his  attitude  toward 
money  seriously.  It  seemed  so  utterly  foolish  to 
her  that  she  did  not  even  try  to  understand  it,  it 
seemed  so  entirely  iniquitous  that  it  never  occurred 
to  her  to  compromise  with  it.  With  every  bit  as 
much  energy  as  he  brought  to  the  task  of  trying  to 
show  her  the  higher  values  of  life,  she  set  to  work  to 
show  him  the  error  of  his  ways. 

There  were  two  things  that  made' her  the  more  bitter 
about  it.  She  felt  the  unspoken  disapproval  of  his 
friends ;  they  all  seemed  to  her  in  a  conspiracy  to 
support  him  in  his  stubborn  resistance  to  common 
sense.  How  she  wished  that  she  could  take  him  away 
from  this  part  of  town,  from  his  old  associates !  The 
other  thing  was  her  mother's  constant,  jeering  "I 
told  you  so."  For  the  first  year  or  two,  she  had  been 
really  better  off  than  her  mother  and  was  not  quite 
so  open  to  this  wounding  sarcasm.  But  at  last  one 
of  her  father's  inventions  had  caught  on.  Money  was 
rolling  in  and  the  prosperity  of  her  parents  made  her 
own  situation  seem  all  the  more  shabby.  "If  you  had 
only  trusted  me,"   her  mother  would   say,  "if  you 


FRANK  GOES  HOME  235 

only  hadn't  been  in  such  a  hurry  —  well  —  nowadays 
we  meet  the  right  kind  of  people,  you  could  have  taken 
your  pick."  It  was  small  wonder  that  Frank  did  not 
succeed  in  the  task  he  had  outlined  to  Eunice,  that 
every  day  the  situation  in  his  home  became  more  un- 
bearable. 

The  thing  that  hurt  him  most  was  that  it  would 
have  been  so  easy  for  hundreds  of  other  men  to  have 
made  her  quite  happy  and  sweet-tempered.  She 
nagged,  just  as  she  had  grown  up  hearing  her  mother 
nag,  because  what  seemed  to  her  simple  and  rational 
desires  were  thwarted  by  a  man's  ideals.  Not  under- 
standing, she  thought  it  unreasonable  and  ill-willed. 
Mrs.  von  Lehrenburg  had  never  understood  her  hus- 
band's motives  in  refusing  to  sell  his  soul  to  the 
electric  company.  Mrs.  Lockwood,  her  daughter, 
could  not  understand  why  Frank  would  not  paint  por- 
traits of  people  who  were  willing  to  pay  extrava- 
gantly. 

Frank  did  not  blame  her.  He  had  loved  her  enough 
to  understand.  It  was  not  her  fault.  He  had  laid 
his  soul  at  her  feet,  everything  of  virtue  that  he 
possessed.  It  was  hard-luck  —  for  both  of  them  — 
that  she  did  not  care  for  his  sacrifice,  that  the  gifts 
he  had  brought  her  had  not  value  in  her  eyes.  The 
gods  had  made  her  so  that  she  wanted  lesser  things. 

He  had  gone  through  several  phases  in  his  relations 
to  her.  His  first  adoration  of  her  beauty  had  been 
rudely  shattered  by  the  discovery  of  her  most  unlovely 
attitude  toward  life.  He  had  recovered  from  the 
crash,  and  had  rearranged  his  conception  of  her  on 
the  basis  that  she  was  very  young  and  had  been  out- 

/ 


236  THE  STRANGER 

fitted  by  her  mother  with  a  perverted  philosophy. 
There  had  been  two  or  three  years  of  brave,  tender, 
hopeful  endeavor  to  show  her  higher  values.  With 
promising  aptitude  she  had  picked  up  his  phraseology. 
But  gradually  the  conviction  had  grown,  had  forced 
itself  on  him,  that  it  was  only  the  words  she  absorbed. 

No  one  could  have  tried  more  earnestly  than  had 
he  to  make  of  marriage  a  noble  thing.  Most  abjectly 
he  had  failed.  In  all  the  years  they  had  lived  to- 
gether, he  had  not  been  able  to  narrow  the  chasm 
between  them  by  an  inch. 

The  conflict  always  centered  on  the  five  thousand 
dollars  a  year  he  had  promised  her.  He  could  have 
earned  more.  But  to  what  end?  If  he  had  brought 
her  ten  thousand,  she  would  have  teased  for  fifteen. 
And  if,  by  turning  himself  into  a  machine,  he  had 
earned  fifteen  thousand,  it  would  only  have  whetted 
her  appetite  for  more.  It  was  not  that  she  had  set 
her  mind  on  any  given  sum.  He  might  have  arranged 
that.  She  thought  he  ought  to  earn  as  much  as  he 
could.     That  was  her  conception  of  a  husband. 

At  length  he  had  lost  hope  of  changing  her.  Should 
he  lower  his  standard?  Every  day  things  became 
more  impossible  between  them.  He  had  loved  her 
utterly,  he  had  wanted  so  earnestly  to  make  her  life 
with  him  a  joyous  thing.  He  could  do  it  if  only  he 
would  abandon  a  few  ideals.  As  she  said,  it  was 
only  necessary  for  him  to  be  "  sensible." 

But  there  was  one  thing,  more  than  any  other, 
which  hardened  his  heart,  which  made  it  impossible 
for  him  to  give  in.  She  refused  to  have  children  on 
less  than  ten  thousand  a  year.     He  wanted  children 


FRANK  GOES  HOME  237 

—  immensely.  He  and  Lillian,  all  his  friends,  ex- 
cept Win,  had  been  raised  in  homes  where  five 
thousand  a  year  would  have  seemed  luxury.  For 
her  to  set  a  money  standard  on  such  things,  to  use 
this  as  a  bribe,  typified  all  that  was  unlovely  about 
her.  He  could  not  surrender  to  this.  He  could  not 
buy  children  from  her. 

He  managed  to  keep  a  cheery  smile  on  his  lips  as 
he  went  about  his  daily  round.  He  was  generally  sup- 
posed to  be  very  much  in  love  with  his  beautiful  wife 

—  and  happy.  Even  Win,  his  best  friend,  who  hated 
Lillian,  did  not  suspect  the  depth  of  his  despair. 

Deep  in  his  subconsciousness  there  was  always  an 
argument  in  process.  The  Puritan  strain  of  his 
"  down  in  Maine  "  ancestors  made  him  try  to  sup- 
press it.  But  the  argument  went  on  just  the  same. 
"Are  you  really  married,"  a  little  voice  repeated 
monotonously,  "in  any  way  that  counts?  It  takes 
two  to  make  a  marriage.  If  it  isn't  mutual,  it  isn't 
anything.  You  have  given  so  much.  What  has  she 
given?" 

A  pain  would  clutch  his  heart  at  the  bare  memory 
of  what  he  had  given  up.  He  tried  his  bravest  to 
repulse  the  thought.  But  now  and  then  the  wail  of 
Oscar  Wilde  —  his  favorite  poet  —  echoed  within  him. 

"  Surely  there  was  a  time  I  might  have  trod 
The  Sunlit  heights  and  from  Life's  dissonance 
Struck  one  clear  chord  to  reach  the  ears  of  God." 

With  never  a  quiver  nor  hesitation  he  had  given 
up  his  "  soul's  inheritance."  He  had  laid  it  loyally 
at  her  feet.    "  And  what,"  the  small  voice  of  his  sub- 


238  THE  STRANGER 

consciousness  would  ask,  "has  she  given?  Nothing! 
Nothing!     But  it's  you  she  accuses  of  selfishness." 

"  You  ought  to  realize  what  I've  given  up,  Frank," 
she  would  often  say.  "  I  wouldn't  complain  if  you 
were  doing  the  best  you  could,  if  you  were  trying  to 
make  the  most  of  yourself  —  but  you  don't  even  try. 
I'd  be  entirely  loyal  to  you,  no  matter  what  bad  luck 
you  had  if  you  were  trying,  but  you  don't  try.  We 
might  just  as  well  have  a  motor  car.  It  wouldn't  take 
you  two  weeks  to  illustrate  that  book  for  Mr.  Law- 
rence. It's  sure  to  be  a  best  seller.  You  could  get  a 
lot  of  society  portraits  if  you  tried.  But  you  won't. 
And  you  won't  even  let  father  give  me  a  car.  You 
say  we  can't  afford  a  chauffeur!  It's  the  dog-in-the- 
manger  attitude  I  complain  of." 

"  This  isn't  marriage  at  all,"  the  little  voice  would 
say. 

Lane  appeared  to  Frank  as  an  amazingly  happy 
man.  Somehow  he  had  never  been  caught  by  the  tyr- 
anny of  "  the  accepted  things."  The  little  voice  urged 
him  to  greater  intimacy.  "  There's  a  free  man,"  it 
said.  "  If  he  wasn't  really  married  to  a  woman,  not 
all  the  Popes  and  judges  in  the  world  could  bluff  him 
into  thinking  he  was." 

This  night,  when  he  left  Lillian  —  left  her  so  sadly 
—  he  could  not  sleep.  Lane's  talk  echoed  within  him. 
Not  so  much  his  words  as  their  meanings.  It  was  as 
though  a  clear  voice  had  called  to  an  imprisoned  one : 
"  Your  chains  are  make-believe.  The  manacles 
which  torture  you  are  shams.  Laugh  at  them  and 
they  will  crumble." 

He  shook  up  the  fire  in  the  old-fashioned  grate, 


FRANK  GOES  HOME  239 

and,  lighting  his  pipe,  settled  down  to  analyze  his 
situation.  When  things  have  gone  wrong,  we  think 
it  would  be  a  comfort  to  know  how  we  are  to  blame, 
where  we  committed  the  fatal  mistake.  Pain  always 
seems  a  punishment  —  at  least  to  us  of  the  West,  who 
believe  in  free  will  and  individual  responsibility. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  a  devout  Muslim  suffers 
less  from  a  toothache  than  we.  He  finds  an  opiate 
comfort  in  the  belief  that  it  was  "  Written  in  the 
Book,"  that  each  pang  was  decreed  by  Allah  before  the 
world  was.  We  find  vexation  of  spirit  and  increased 
misery  in  the  conviction  that  it  is  a  retribution  for 
Mime  sin.  We  have  eaten  too  many  sweets.  We 
neglected  to  clean  our  teeth  regularly,  or  we  have 
failed  to  go  to  the  dentist  with  sensible  frequency. 

The  fatalism  with  which  the  East  calms  its  pains 
is  no  more  fantastic  than  the  bumptious  belief  in 
free  will  with  which  Ve  excite  and  multiply  our 
hurts. 

Of  only  one  thing  he  was  sure,  it  was  not  Lillian's 
fault.  There  were  very  few  men  in  New  York  who 
thought  more  tenderly  of  their  wives,  who  blamed 
their  women  less  for  the  misery  at  home,  the  hidden 
misery,  which  may  not  be  shown.  There  was  nothing 
bad  about  Lillian,  only  she  did  not  understand. 

His  life  was  a  torture.  He  was  utterly  unhappy. 
Lillian  was  not  to  blame,  it  must  be  his  fault.  Where- 
in lay  his  sin?  Lillian  accused  him  of  selfishness. 
But  he  could  hardly  admit  this  charge.  He  indulged 
only  one  luxury.  He  kept  a  fishing  dory,  which  he 
had  brought  up  from  Maine,  in  a  modest  boat  club  in 
Huntington  Harbor.     Sometimes   he  escaped   to  it, 


240  THE  STRANGER 

when  he  was  too  sore  for  human  intercourse.  Alone, 
his  hands  employed  in  the  dear  sea  craft  he  had 
learned  as  a  boy,  alone  with  his  first  playmates,  the 
wind  and  the  waves,  he  sometimes  caught  fleeting 
glimpses  of  his  goddess  again  and  was  comforted. 

He  thought  back  to  the  day  when  he  had  boxed  up 
Lillian's  portrait  and  had  felt  such  appalling  lone- 
liness. That  had  been  the  crucial  moment  of  his  life. 
Should  he  have  checked  himself,  denied  the  human 
heart,  the  longing  and  passion  within  him?  Would 
he  have  done  so,  even  if  he  could  have  foreseen  all  that 
it  would  mean?  No,  he  could  not  convince  himself 
that  it  had  been  wrong  for  him  to  love  Lillian.  It 
had  seemed  to  him  so  manifestly  the  bidding  of  his 
goddess. 

He  would  have  understood  his  sin  if  he  had  let 
the  flesh  enslave  him,  but  it  was  not  that.  There 
were  still  occasional  flames  of  passion  in  his  love 
for  Lillian.  It  had  not  completely  burned  out  even 
after  all  these  sad  years.  But  that  was  not  what 
held  him. 

He  tried,  sitting  there  before  the  fire  which  was 
burning  low,  desperately  hard  to  be  just  to  himself. 
He  could  not  find  his  fault.  He  could  not  see  his 
duty  clear. 

He  had  for  his  own  talents,  gifts  the  goddess  had 
bestowed,  the  awe  and  reverence  that  were  their  due. 
He  could  not  think  lightly  of  them.  All  were  going 
to  waste. 

If,  over  and  above  her  beauty,  there  had  been  un- 
derstanding —  love  —  how  gladly  he  would  have  left 
his  songs  unsung !     Neither  love  nor  work.     All  was 


FRANK  GOES  HOME  241 

wasted.  He  was  very  sure  this  was  an  unforgivable 
sin.     But  he  could  see  no  escape. 

He  felt  himself  tangled  helplessly  in  an  intangi- 
ble snare.  Society,  which  cared  not  at  all  for  his 
individual  soul,  nor  for  the  fair  flowers  and  rich  fruit 
it  might  have  borne,  smothered  him  in  its  insistance 
on  outward  forms  and  accepted  attitudes. 

He  was  at  that  time  illustrating  "  Gulliver's 
Travels."  He  wondered  if  there  were  other  worlds 
where  men  were  very  much  bigger  —  or  smaller  — 
than  the  men  he  knew.  Perhaps  in  Mars  or  some 
more  distant  star  there  were  beings  who  would  value 
his  gifts,  who  would  judge  him,  as  silently  in  his 
inmost  heart  as  he  judged  himself.  Men  who  would 
say  it  was  a  shameful  thing  for  one  who  might  sing 
songs  to  support  a  wife. 

There  was  no  doubt  what  the  society  of  New  York 
City,  or  even  of  what  his  friends,  thought  about  it. 
They  expected  him  to  support  his  wife.  If  they  knew 
the  insides  of  the  situation  they  would,  reluctantly, 
perhaps,  but  nevertheless  surely,  take  Lillian's  side. 
They  would  say  —  "  It's  too  bad  you're  not  happy  — 
but  you  made  your  own  bed."  They'd  tell  him  "  to 
st  i<k."  Yes,  once  you  are  married,  the  convention 
is  explicit. 

As  Mr.  Wells  has  pointed  out  again  and  again  in 
his  novels,  man  is  an  imperfectly  domesticated  animal. 
We  have  only  a  pitiful  few  thousand  years  to  accus- 
tom ourselves  to  living  in  unison  and  we  are  still 
far  from  expert  at  it. 

It  is  surprising  that  the  fabric  of  society  holds 
together  as  well  as  it  does.     Why  do  so  many  people 


242  THE  STRANGER 

accept  the  conventions?  It  is  hard  to  discover  a  sin- 
gle member  of  our  ponderous  family  who  does  not 
sacrifice  some  personal  treasure  to  the  Spirit  of  the 
Hive.  This  one  is  checked  on  the  threshold  of  some 
glorious  adventure  by  considerations  of  Good  Form. 
That  one  folds  away  a  great  aspiration  in  order  to  pay 
off  the  mortgage  on  the  family  estate,  to  liquidate  a 
debt  left  by  a  former  generation.  And  the  Moral 
Law,  that  strange,  incoherent,  nine-lived  structure, 
which  has  been  so  often  demolished  in  argument,  still 
survives  and  holds  so  many,  many  people  back  from 
their  hearts'  desire. 

The  conventions!  Almost  all  philosophers  have 
agreed  to  call  them  lies.  But  no  sane  person  can  deny 
their  force.  You  can  analyze  every  one  of  them  into 
nothingness  but  you  cannot  explain  away  the  indigna- 
tion of  society,  when  they  are  violated,  nor  the  pen- 
alties inflicted. 

Sooner  or  later  almost  every  one  comes  to  clutches 
with  the  problem :  Shall  I,  the  living,  pulsing,  yearn- 
ing individual,  sacrifice  the  dearest  child  of  my  soul 
to  this  Moloch  of  conventional  lies?  It  is  easy  to 
argue,  as  does  Mr.  Wells  —  and  his  arguments  are 
weighty  —  that  it  is  expedient  for  the  individual  to 
make  concessions  to  the  community  ideal,  to  strike  a 
compromise  with  society.  It  is  easy  to  argue  thus 
when  the  problem  is  abstract.  But  as  soon  as  it  be- 
comes concrete,  it  is  just  as  easy  to  argue  —  and  with 
just  as  much  weight  —  that  the  thing  desired  and  for- 
bidden is  real,  that  it  has  a  near,  personal  value, 
while  the  benefits  of  conformity  are  problematic  and 
very  remote. 


FRANK  GOES  HOME  243 

It  is  at  first  sight  surprising  that  in  so  great  a 
majority  of  cases  the  conventions  win.  But  the  rea- 
son is  not  far  to  seek.  The  average  'vitality  of  the 
race  is  very  low,  scantily  sufficient  to  maintain  and 
hand  on  the  feeble  flame  of  life.  Few  of  us  have 
energy  to  desire  passionately  any  of  the  luxuries  of 
the  soul.  We  are  not  content  with  bare  existence,  but 
there  is  a  vast  gulf  between  vague  discontent  and 
passionate  desire.  Very  few  of  us  want  anything 
intensely  enough  to  risk  our  skins  to  get  it. 

Frank,  slunk  down  deep  in  his  armchair  before 
the  dying  embers  of  his  fire,  pondering  deeply  on  the 
cause  and  meaning  of  his  miserable  entanglement, 
saw  the  scroll  of  life  unroll  before  the  eyes  of  his 
spirit  as  though  it  were  a  dreamy  parable. 


Life  seemed  to  him  a  hurrying,  fatiguing  journey. 
Our  ancestors  have  erected  signposts  along  the  way, 
signposts  and  high  fences.  It  is  not  a  straight  nor 
a  very  commodious  road  which  they  have  bequeathed 
us.  They  were  not  trained  engineers.  But  at  least 
it  is  practicable.  Great  throngs  hurry  along  and  few 
have  breath  to  do  more  than  keep  the  pace. 

But  the  youngsters,  in  the  plenitude  of  their 
strength,  which  was  given  them  for  their  entire  jour- 
ney, hasten  ahead  at  times  and  so  gain  resting 
moments  when  they  can  look  beyond  the  narrow  con- 
fines of  the  path.  They  talk  among  themselves  of 
the  things  their  eyes  have  seen,  and  always  young 
eyes  see  wondrous  things. 

The  country  on  either  side  looks  fairer  to  them; 


244  THE  STRANGER 

at  least,  it  has  not  been  beaten  into  lifelessness  by 
the  myriad  hurrying  feet. 

"  How  much  more  beautiful,"  some  say,  "  our  jour- 
ney would  be  if  our  road  followed  the  crest  of  the 
mountain  range!  How  much  purer  the  air  up  yon- 
der !     How  much  broader  the  outlook !  " 

And  others  of  a  more  practical  turn  remark  that 
the  road  is  most  crooked. 

"  It  would  be  much  shorter  if  we  left  it  and  went 
straight  to  our  journey's  end." 

And  some  say : 

"Yesterday  we  heard  the  pipes  of  Pan,  and  on  a 
distant  rock  we  saw  the  great  god  with  his  nymphs. 
They  stopped  their  dance  to  beckon  us.     And  —  oh ! 

—  we  were  fain  to  go.     But  the  old  folk  held  us  back 

—  told  us  they  were  most  dreadful  sirens." 

"  Back  in  the  wilds,"  others  say,  "  we  could  be  free 

—  we  would  not  be  bothered  by  the  rules  of  the  road." 
"  At  least  it  would  be  more  exciting  in  the  jungle," 

they  all  agree  —  these  youngsters  as  they  talk  among 
themselves  — "  Life  there  would  have  more  thrills. 
It  is  stupid  to  follow  this  antiquated  trail." 

Some  there  always  are  who  light-minded  leave  the 
path,  the  safe  path  of  the  old  folk.  They  do  not  fore- 
see the  hardship  of  the  trackless  jungle,  nor  take  stock 
of  their  own  strength.  They  make  no  preparation. 
They  have  not  even  a  clear  idea  of  where  they  wish  to 
go.  Rashly,  childishly,  they  clamber  over  the  fences 
which  were  built  with  so  great  care.  And  one  is  al- 
most certain  to  die  in  the  jungle.  The  dangers  are 
manifold. 

These  light-headed  ones  soon  lose  their  gay  reck- 


FRANK  GOES  HOME  245 

lessness.  They  are  frightened  by  strange  beasts,  they 
fall  into  dismal  swamps.  The  shriek  of  their  agony 
is  often  heard  on  the  road,  the  safe  road  of  the  fathers. 
The  old  folk  shake  their  heads  wisely  at  the  piteous 
sound  and  point  the  moral  to  the  young :  "  That  is 
the  wailing  of  the  outcasts." 

Of  course  it  is  a  lie.  Those  who  perish  in  the 
jungle  were  not  cast  out.  They  went  voluntarily,  in 
spite  of  strenuous  efforts  to  keep  them  in.  But  the 
people  of  the  path  prefer  to  call  them  "  outcasts." 

Some  of  the  youngsters  trudge  on  with  their  elders 
for  months  and  years.  They  listen  attentively  to  the 
noises  of  the  jungle.  They  learn  what  they  may  from 
the  camp  fire  stories  of  fellow  travelers,  they  attend 
respectfully  to  the  lectures  of  the  old  folk.  But 
ever  the  thought  of  the  purer  air,  the  broader  vision 
of  the  hilltops,  of  the  straighter,  shorter  road,  of  the 
haunting  beauty  of  the  sylvan  pipes,  burns  within 
them.  At  last,  having  collected  a  little  bundle  of 
provisions,  a  weapon  or  two,  a  compass  —  or  perhaps 
relying  solely  on  the  guidance  of  the  stars  —  they, 
too,  leave  the  beaten  path  to  struggle  for  a  definite 
goal. 

Very  many  of  them,  also,  are  lost.  But  even  if  they 
fall  into  the  fangs  of  the  great  serpent,  they  do  not 
wail.  If  Death  comes  to  them,  he  finds  them  silent 
and  unafraid.     A  few  win  through. 

Far  in  advance  they  strike  the  road  again.  They 
are  torn  and  bleeding  from  the  thorns  of  the  jungle, 
emaciated  with  hunger,  disfigured  with  wounds. 
They  have  blazed,  for  all  who  come  after,  a  shorter, 
better  trail,  and  are  greeted  as  heroes  by  the  dusty 


246  THE  STRANGER 

people  of  the  path.  But  those  who  hail  them,  never 
realize  the  harships  they  have  outfaced,  the  pains 
they  have  borne.  Even  less  do  they  conceive  the  in- 
expressible joys  of  the  jungle;  the  thrill  of  freedom 
and  adventure,  the  clear,  pure  air,  the  caresses  of  the 
nymphs.  These  things  are  inexpressible,  because 
the  pale  language  of  the  road  holds  no  words  for  such 
vibrant  things. 

This  is  the  great  tragedy,  the  unanticipated  pain 
of  the  explorers,  the  forthfarers,  the  shorteners  of 
paths.  They  can  never  tell  of  their  experiences. 
Even  the  solitude  of  the  jungle  is  not  so  empty  as 
the  loneliness  amid  the  crowd  on  the  road  who  cannot 
understand. 

The  weak  people  get  to  their  journey's  end  by 
carefully  following  the  ancient  signposts — ,  their 
skins  intact.  Perhaps  they,  too,  have  heard  the  dis- 
tant pipes  of  Pan,  have  caught  glimpses,  which  linger 
in  their  dreams,  of  the  white,  alluring  bodies  of 
dryads  dancing;  they  also,  perhaps,  have  longed  for 
the  pure  air  of  the  mountaintops,  have  thrilled  timidly 
at  stories  of  derring  do,  have  wished  the  path  were 
straighter.  But  their  desire  for  these  things  has  been 
pallid  indeed  beside  their  vivid  fears. 

No  one  who  has  watched  the  process  of  life  closely 
can  disagree  with  the  ancient  law,  the  hoary  maxim, 
which  says :  "  If  you  don't  know  what  you  want  —  do 
what  your  mother  tells  you."  Few  people  know 
what  they  want,  fewer  have  the  energy  to  be  more  than 
peevish  when,  in  the  interests  of  the  hive,  their  de- 
sires are  denied. 


FRANK  GOES  HOME  247 

The  conventions  have  nothing  to  do  with  ethics. 
They  are  a  matter  of  expediency.  It  is  useless  to 
call  them  lies.  They  are  the  signposts  along  the 
easiest  way.  Pale-blooded  people  should  follow  them 
religiously. 

The  average  anaemic  person  can  have  no  conception 
of  the  black  hatred  toward  the  conventional  attitudes 
which  had  grown  up  in  Frank's  heart.  He  had  given 
a  glorious  birthright  for  a  very  inferior  mess  of 
pottage.  The  conventions  commanded  him  to  stand 
by  this  infamous  contract. 

He  wondered  how  Lane  would  judge  him.  What 
would  this  Stranger  from  a  remote  civilization  think 
of  this  contract  he  was  expected  to  keep?  He  would 
have  liked  to  submit  the  case  to  him.  But  he  was 
oppressed  by  the  knowledge  that  it  was  not  "  the 
thing"  to  do  so.  He  would  be  thought  a  cad,  if  it 
were  known  that  he  had  discussed  his  wife  with  an 
outsider.  The  home  relation  is  the  last  matter  of 
which  it  is  permitted  to  talk  frankly. 

This  fact  was  the  bitterest  element  in  his  misery. 
He  was  expected  to  ignore  it.  He  was  expected  "  to 
grin  and  bear  it"  in  silence.  Win,  who  knew  him 
so  well,  must  know  that  things  were  not  going  right. 
Never  once  had  Win  even  remotely  suggested  that  his 
home  life  was  anything  but  beatific.  Win,  his  best 
friend,  would  be  horrified  if  he  confided  his  soul's 
distress. 

The  desire  to  have  an  outside  judgment  on  his  pre- 
dicament was  keen.  He  would  like  to  talk  it  all  out 
with  this  Stranger.  The  little  voice  within  him  kept 
repeating  "Why  not?"     Twice  he  rehearsed  to  him- 


248  THE  STRANGER    ' 

self  how  he  would  put  his  case,  if  he  were  presenting 
it  to  Lane.  But  at  last  he  went  to  bed  —  still  with 
no  idea  that  he  ever  would  find. the  courage  to  say 
such  things  to  a  stranger. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

EUNICE  AND  THE  GARDEN 

Eunice  would  have  known  that  the  Stranger  loved 
her,  as  he  felt  she  must  know,  if  she  had  looked  things 
in  the  face.     But  this,  of  course,  she  did  not  do. 

Her  love  for  him  had  flamed  so  dazzlingly  in  her 
heart  that  it  could  not  be  ignored.  But  as  soon  as 
might  be,  as  soon  as  she  had  time  to  think,  she  strove 
to  suppress  this  emotion.  It  was  foolish  for  a  woman 
so  sick  to  dream  of  love.  She  might  as  well  have 
desired  the  moon  for  a  jewel.  So,  as  all  her  people 
had  done  for  generations,  as  all  her  associates  from 
childhood  had  done,  as  every  tendency  in  the  life 
about  her  taught  her  to  do,  she  tried  to  forget  this 
disturbing  thing  —  to  pretend  it  did  not  exist. 

When,  the  morning  after  he  had  dined  with  her, 
she  opened  the  package  of  photographs  and  read  the 
careful  notes  he  had  written,  she  was  still  somewhat 
lethargic  from  the  drug,  her  nerves  were  still  numb 
from  the  unaccustomed  turmoil  of  the  yesterday. 
When  the  body  is  fatigued,  it  is  easy  to  be  rational. 
So  she  read  the  Service  for  the  Dead  in  her  heart  and 
built  a  tombstone  over  her  love. 

Of  course  he  had  written,  instead  of  coming  in 
person  with  the  pictures.  Why  should  he  come 
again?  He  had  seen  her  face  to  face.  He  had 
reached  a  just  estimate  of  her  small  worth.    Proba- 

240 


250  THE  STRANGER 

bly  Pete  and  Win,  when  they  had  gone  off  with  him, 
had  told  him  of  her  unfitness.  They  would  have 
spoken  kindly,  of  course,  they  were  always  kind  to 
her.  After  all,  it  was  best  for  him  to  know.  Besides 
he  had  seen  her  work.  He  knew  the  ineffectualness 
of  her  life.  Pictures  for  children!  He  had  been 
wonderfully  courteous  to  her  about  it,  pretending  to 
be  interested.     But  he  would  not  come  again. 

So  the  day  passed,  a  barren  day,  which  saw  no 
work  accomplished.  Helen  had  a  committee  meeting 
that  evening  and,  before  she  came  home,  Eunice,  un- 
able to  bear  her  desolate  loneliness,  had  taken  the 
drops  again. 

It  was  three  days  before  she  picked  up  again  the 
slender  thread  which  was  her  life.  And  then  she 
smiled  sardonically  at  herself.  What  a  hullabaloo 
she  had  kicked  up  over  nothing  at  all!  Of  course 
Lane  was  interested  in  her,  just  as  he  was  interested 
in  every  other  individual  in  the  mass  he  liked  to 
study.  He  was  interested  in  Chinese  laundrymen 
and  Jamaican  Jenny.  She  was  to  him  a  curio  —  an 
unveiled  woman.  Perhaps,  also,  there  was  some  pe- 
culiar intonation  in  her  speech  to  interest  him. 

Such  interest  was  not  exactly  complimentary,  but 
she  could  pay  him  back  in  his  own  coin.  She  had  an 
interest  in  him.  He  could  help  her  with  her  foolish 
picture  of  Tit,  Tat  Toe  and  Little  Top  in  Marakesh, 
and  that  was  good  for  five  hundred  dollars  from  The 
Children's  World,  besides  the  share  in  the  book  pro- 
ceeds. She  doubted  if  he  could  get  an  equal  value 
out  of  studying  her  accent.  And  so,  feeling  just  as 
commercial  about  it  as  she  could  contrive,  she  wrote 


EUNICE  AND  THE  GARDEN  251 

him  a  formal  note  asking  him  to  come  and  help  her 
with  the  picture. 

It  reached  him  in  the  early  morning  mail.  He  had 
hardly  left  his  room  all  those  three  days.  He  had 
been  making  "  keef  "  —  waiting  for  the  summons. 
He  telephoned  at  once  that  he  would  come.  He 
waited  only  long  enough  to  be  sure  that  Helen  would 
have  left  for  her  office. 

He  hardly  recognized  Eunice.  She  was  so  formal, 
so  businesslike! 

Somehow  a  cloud  had  blown  across  the  face  of  love. 
What  caused  the  chill  he  could  not  guess.  He  could 
only  hope  that  it  would  pass,  meanwhile  he  would  be 
of  service. 

Sickness  is  a  wonderful  discipline  for  the  will 
and  Eunice  had  her  teeth  set  in  determination.  So 
for  an  hour  or  more  they  occupied  themselves  with  the 
rough  draft  of  her  picture.  But  even  Eunice's  inter- 
est was  perfunctory.  Now  and  then  he  would  look 
up  at  her  face  questioningly.  And,  feeling  this  glance 
of  his,  she  would  forget  the  point  of  the  question  she 
had  just  asked. 

"  I  wish  you  could  understand  Arabic,"  he  said  at 
last,  after  a  barren  pause.  "  In  English  I  do  not 
know  how  to  talk  of  love." 

A  dumb  sound  broke  from  Eunice's  lips.  It  was 
something  very  near  a  sob,  but  not  quite.  Cruelly, 
in  a  flash,  she  realized  that  all  the  time  they  had 
been  together  this  morning,  for  days  and  nights  be- 
fore, ever  since  the  Thanksgiving  fete,  she  had  hoped 
that  this  would  come.  But  she  had  not  allowed  her- 
■elf  to  understand  what  she  was  hoping. 


252  THE  STRANGER 

She  was  utterly,  horribly  ashamed.  It  was  the  con- 
fusion which  most  of  us  have  felt  now  and  then,  when, 
abruptly,  some  reasonless  wish,  some  hidden  emotion 
which  we  have  striven  to  forbid  and  suppress,  has 
won  to  dominance.  "  The  stone  which  the  builder  re- 
jected !  "  The  old  biblical  parable  is  reenacted  in 
our  own  life.  The  desires  we  prided  ourselves  on 
ignoring  have  overthrown  what  we  fondly  called  our 
"  better  selves." 

We  would  like  to  think  of  ourselves  as  clear-cut 
individuals,  as  units,  but  ever  and  again  we  find  our- 
selves fragmentary  —  divided.  Civil  war,  treason, 
breaks  out  in  our  inmost  citadel.  All  that  is  con- 
scious and  reasonable  about  us  has  ordained  a  certain 
action,  a  certain  attitude,  and  just  as  our  course  looks 
surest  before  us,  the  little  senseless  word  slips  out. 
The  telltale,  betraying  gesture  suddenly  overthrows 
our  careful  artifice.  The  subconscious,  which  we  have 
despised  and  ignored,  has  triumphed.  The  fat's  in  the 
fire. 

The  reason  of  Eunice's  shame  was  the  realization 
that  all  the  time,  in  spite  of  the  overwhelming  argu- 
ments against  it,  in  spite  of  her  conviction  that  it 
would  be  senseless  and  sinful,  she  had  wanted  Lane  to 
love  her.  She  had  no  right  to  love,  less  to  be  loved. 
According  to  all  her  standards  of  honor  and  human 
decency  she  ought  not  to  have  allowed  this  to  happen. 
So  self-evident  had  all  this  been  to  her,  that  she  had 
thought  herself  sincere  as  her  heart  had  chanted  the 
Service  for  the  Dead  over  her  love.  And  now,  in  a 
blaze,  she  knew  that  she  had  not  been  sincere.     Even 


EUNICE  AND  THE  GARDEN  253 

as  she  had  lit  the  funeral  candles  before  the  tomb- 
stone in  her  heart,  she  had  hoped ! 

Worse !  She  had  schemed  for  it.  She  had  not  been 
loyal  to  herself  —  less  to  him.  It  had  not  been  for 
help  on  her  picture  that  she  had  sent  for  him.  She 
saw  the  trick  of  it  now.  Oh,  the  plausible  sound  her 
false  argument  of  commerce  had  had !  It  was  igno- 
miny to  realize  that  she  had  deceived  herself  with 
the  pretence  that  five  hundred  dollars  had  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  her  asking  him  to  come !  Twice  that 
morning,  after  he  had  telephoned  that  he  would  come, 
she  had  gone  to  the  mirror  to  rearrange  her  hair. 
These  little  coquetries  pointed  scornful,  accusing 
fingers  at  her. 

Of  course  Lane  did  not  know  what  it  was  which 
had  chased  all  the  faint  color  from  her  cheeks  and 
brought  the  uncontrolled,  spasmodic  quiver  to  her 
lips,  nor,  why  in  breathless  silence,  she  bowed  her 
head  down  to  her  drawing  board  and  hid  her  face. 
He  could  have  talked  to  her  in  Arabic.  The  English 
words  came  hard. 

"Are  you  ill?" 

If  these  subconscious  desires  had  been  dominating 
Eunice  it  was  only  because  they  were  hidden.  Once 
she  saw  them  clearly  and  understood  herself,  she 
knew  what  she  ought  to  do  and  courageously  she  at- 
tempted it. 

"  No,  no  more  than  usual/'  she  said,  facing  him 
bravely.     "  But  you  must  not  talk  love  to  me." 

"You  do  not  want  me  to  love  you?" 

"  No,"  she  said  quickly,  believing  for  the  moment 


254  THE  STRANGER 

that  her  reason  was  herself  and  that  she  was  speaking 
true. 

But  his  look  disconcerted  her.  The  habits  of 
thought  on  which  her  reason  was  built  held  no  truth 
for  him  in  this  crisis.  And  she  did  not  want  to 
lie. 

"  That's  not  the  point,"  she  tried  again.  "  You 
mustn't  love  me.  I  haven't  any  right  to  love.  I'm 
ashamed  —  that  I  let  you  love  me." 

"  Ashamed  —  of  love?  " 

There  was  a  blank  bewilderment  in  his  voice,  much 
distress,  and  a  shade  of  reproach. 

"Ashamed  of  love?" 

She  looked  away.  How  could  she  answer? 
Ashamed?  Yes.  A  part  of  her  was.  But  all  the 
rest  of  her  was  singing  paeans.  The  blood  in  her 
veins  —  the  thin  blood  —  was  dancing  in  joyous  pride, 
even  as  King  David  danced  before  the  Ark  of  the 
Covenant. 

"  No  right  to  love?  Are  you  promised  to  an- 
other? " 

Again  she  could  find  no  words,  but  her  whole 
shuddering  attitude  answered  "  No." 

"No  right  to  love?"  he  repeated  drearily. 

He  was  sadly  lost.  No  whit  did  he  understand. 
He  knew  she  loved  him,  but  his  love  was  painful  to 
her.  How  could  it  be?  A  possible  —  a  fantastic 
but  possible  —  explanation  flashed  into  his  mind. 

"  Perhaps  —  I  have  read  of  such  things  —  perhaps 
you  are  a  nun?    A  bride  of  Christ?" 

"  Oh,  no !  No !  "  she  stammered,  still  struggling 
desperately  against  all  of  her  being,  which  was  not 


EUNICE  AND  THE  GARDEN  255 

that  little  tangle  of  nerve  cells,  that  square  inch  of 
gray  matter,  with  which  we  reason.  "  No,  no. 
Can't  you  understand?  I  love  you.  But  you  mustn't 
love  me.  I'm  sick.  I'm  not  promised  to  any  one. 
No !     I'm  not  the  bride  of  any  one  —  but  Death !  " 

He  did  not  understand,  not  much  of  what  she  said. 
But  he  understood  what  to  do.  He  took  her  hands 
and  kissed  them  and,  as  she  turned  her  face  away,  he 
kissed  her  neck.  At  that,  all  her  valiant  resistance 
fell  away.  She  clung  to  him  and  sobbed.  He  picked 
her  up  lightly  —  so  very  lightly  —  and  carried  her 
to  the  couch.  While  she  lay  that  moment  unresisting 
in  his  arms,  he  realized  for  the  first  time  how  very 
little  there  was  left  of  her  this  side  of  the  grave. 
He  laid  her  down  tenderly  and  stroked  her  hands  and 
sang  to  her,  under  his  breath,  a  plaintive  Shilah  love 
song.     He  could  not  find  English  words. 

Presently  her  sobs  were  quieted  under  his  minis- 
trations. She  opened  her  eyes,  reached  out  her  hand, 
and  touched  his  cheek  as  if  amazed. 

"  And  so,  Beloved,"  she  asked,  "  you  love  me?  " 

"  We  three  be  one." 

And  all  the  tears  she  had  ever  shed  were  dried  up 
and  forgotten. 

"  The  innermost,  innermost  door  is  open,  Beloved," 
she  whispered,  "to  welcome  Love." 

And  then  he  realized  that  the  trouble  with  his 
tongue  was  not  the  unaccustomed  language.  Not 
even  in  Arabic  could  he  have  found  words  to  express 
what  was  in  his  heart. 

In  a  way  Love  found  him  unprepared.  To  be  sure, 
ho  \\;is  unaslmined.     There  were  no  resistances  in  his 


256  THE  STRANGER 

habit  of  thought  to  overcome.  But  he  was  less  able 
to  express  its  wonder  than  was  Eunice.  All  his  life 
long  Love  had  been  for  him  only  an  ideal.  It  was  the 
Spirit  of  Poesy.  It  was  the  Music  of  the  Stars.  It 
was  the  Mystic  Way,  the  path  that  leads  to  life's 
highest  mountain  peaks.  It  was  the  Burning  Bush. 
The  Very  Voice  of  God.  He  could  have  discoursed 
with  endless  eloquence  about  Love,  but  he  could  only 
stammer  about  his  love. 

For  a  while  he  sat  beside  her  on  the  edge  of  the 
couch,  silent.  Then,  lighting  a  cigarette,  he  began  to 
tell  her  about  his  little  whitewashed  house  in  the 
Glawi.  It  was  in  the  hills,  three  days  by  muleback 
from  Marakesh.  It  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  cliff,  that 
broke  down  a  thousand  feet  to  a  broad  fair  valley, 
and  beyond  were  the  Great  Atlas,  which  support 
high  heaven.  Half  the  horizon  from  his  flat  roof  was 
eternal  snow.  He  told  her  of  the  oranges  that  grew 
in  his  garden,  of  the  olives  and  almond  trees  and  the 
date  palms  and  of  the  ineffable  splendor  of  the  moon 
when  she  rose  above  Jibel  Kebir  and  shone  on  all 
the  white-capped  mountains  round  about  and  how 
even  the  mystic  sheen  of  the  moon  was  a  lesser  glory 
than  the  Light  of  Love. 

"How  do  you  say  'Beloved'  in  your  language?" 
she  asked. 

"  I  would  not  have  known  it  was  beautiful,"  she 
said  when  he  had  taught  her  the  word,  "  if  I  did  not 
know  it  meant  you."  , 

"  Us,"  he  corrected  her. 

He  started  once  more  to  tell  of  his  mountains,  but 
the  spell  was  broken. 


EUNICE  AND  THE  GARDEN  257 

"  It  would  be  wonderful,  Beloved,"  she  interrupted, 
"  but  I  will  never  live  to  go  so  far  with  you." 

"  The  doctors  may  be  wrong." 

"  It  is  not  that  the  doctors  have  told  me.  I 
know." 

He  did  not  contradict  her  —  nor  argue. 

"You  are  not  afraid  to  die." 

There  was  not  the  shadow  of  a  question  in  his 
voice. 

"  No.  So  very  many,  many  times  I've  wished  that 
it  would  come  quickly.  But  now  " —  once  more  tears 
glistened  in  her  eyes,  but  they  did  not  have  the  glitter 
of  bitterness.  "  Oh  —  now,  Beloved,  I  would  like  to 
live." 

He  raised  her  hand  devoutly  to  his  lips  and  kissed 
its  palm. 

"Why  must  we  have  sickness  and  death?"  she 
asked.     "How  does  your  religion  explain  that?" 

"  '  If  the  seed  did  not  die '  " —  he  quoted  — "  '  there 
would  be  no  plant. 

"  *  If  the  flower  did  not  fade  there  would  be  no 
fruit.'  It  is  the  will  of  Allah,  who  is  compassionate 
and  merciful." 

"  No,"  she  broke  out,  in  very  Western  revolt.  "  He 
is  not  merciful  to  us,  to  me  -+■  to  you.  It  is  so  won- 
derful to  love  —  and  for  us  it  is  all  waste  —  like 
a  little  child  who  is  born  dead.  It  is  not  merci- 
ful." 

"  No?  Has  not  the  mercy  of  Love  come  to  us  —  to 
me  in  my  solitude,  to  you  in  your  sickness?  Some 
people  live  and  die  who  have  never  known  Love.  I 
think  they  must  be  very  lonely  in  their  graves.     El 


258  THE  STRANGER 

hamdu-l-illah!  That  was  not  written  in  the  Book  for 
us!     Allah  has  shown  us  His  mercy." 

For  a  moment  she  was  silenced,  and  then,  intent  on 
stirring  him  out  of  his  resignation,  she  sat  up. 

"No,  not  to  us.  To  me?  Yes!  You  are  right. 
I  will  not  be  lonely  in  my  grave  " —  once  more  she 
reached  out  her  hand  in  that  amazed  gesture  and 
touched  his  cheek  — "  I  used  to  fear  the  solitude  of 
death,  but  I  will  not  be  lonely  —  any  more !  But  for 
you,  Beloved,  it  is  not  merciful.  No !  You  asked  me 
why  I  was  ashamed.     Why?     You  have  a  right  to  love 

—  to  life.  And  I  —  I,  who  am  half  dead,  haven't  any 
such  right.  I  ought  not  to  have  let  you  love  me  — 
you  nor  any  one.  If  I'd  been  brave  and  worthy  I 
would  not  have  let  you  come  to  see  me  so  often,  I 
would  not  have  sent  for  you  to-day.  But,  oh !  — 
I  wanted  you  so  much  and  I  was  weak.  How  could 
I  not  be  ashamed?  It  is  a  horrid  sin  for  me  to  let 
myself  be  loved." 

"  How  can  love  be  a  sin?    How  else  can  we  be  like 

i 

God  —  whose  name  is  love?  " 

"  Oh !  But  love  should  bear  fruit.  You  should 
have  —  you  have  a  right  to  have  —  a  wife  to  bear 
you  children.  Yes,  you  should  have  children.  Such 
dear  little  children  they  would  be  —  your  children! 
But  it  would  be  criminal  for  me  to  hand  down  to 
another  generation  the  sickness  of  this  body  of  mine 

—  which  I  inherited  from  my  parents.  At  least 
they  were  ignorant  of  their  sin.  But  I  know. 
I—" 

"lam  very  grateful,"  he  broke  in,  "  to  your  parents 
for  what  you  call  their  '  sin.'     It  is  in  this  that  the 


EUNICE  AND  THE  GARDEN  259 

Compassion  and  Mercy  of  Allah  is  most  manifest  to 
me  —  that  you  were  born  —  Oh,"  he  cried,  jumping 
up  and  pacing  the  room  in  torment,  "  I  cannot  stand 
the  cruelty  of  your  Western  life. 

"  Health !  It  is  only  a  word.  An  empty,  abstract 
word.  There  is  no  virtue  in  health.  Stones  are  not 
sick.  Pigs  have  health.  The  black  boy  who  runs  the 
elevator  is  healthy!  Is  he  an  ideal  man?  Should 
we  strive  to  be  like  him?  Even  your  own  Bible  says 
'  unless  a  grain  of  wheat  f  alleth  into  the  earth  and  die, 
it  abideth  by  itself  alone,  but  if  it  die,  it  beareth  much 
fruit.' 

"  Health !  It  is  like  '  Efficiency.'  Some  people  say 
the  Americans  worship  the  almighty  dollar.  No! 
You  worship  words! 

"  Health!  what  is  it?  Even  your  doctors  can't  de- 
fine it.  And  you  call  us  superstitious!  You  with 
your  charms  and  magic  formulae  and  puny  drugs !  Of 
all  your  word  gods,  health  is  the  greatest!  You  no 
longer  build  temples  to  Jehovah,  you  erect  hospitals 
to  health!  You  no  longer  fear  the  devil,  you  cower 
before  sickness.  You  are  more  afnaid  of  pain  than 
of  sin !  No  mediaeval  superstition,  no  fetish  worship 
of  the  native  blacks  was  ever  more  abject ! 

"  Lancaster  says  you  are  no  longer  priest-ridden, 
you  grovel  before  your  doctors  of  medicine.  Did  any 
indulgence-selling  priests  ever  get  fatter  off  credulity 
than  your  modern  quacks?  They  offer  you  long  life 
—  instead  of  eternal  life.  That's  your  famous  prog- 
ress : 

"  In  olden  days,  parents  used  to  give  their  children 
to  Moloch  to  save  their  souls.    You  —  modern  people 


260  THE  STRANGER 

—  sacrifice  your  souls  to  keep  your  bodies  alive !  It 
is  hideous ! 

"  In  the  same  year  when  you  were  born,  millions 
of  children  were  born.  But  out  of  them  all,  God 
chose  you  to  be  His  messenger  to  me.  What  do  I  care 
about  those  healthy  babies? 

"  If  I  were  not  a  man,  if  I  were  a  stallion  —  if  all 
I  wanted  were  healthy,  soulless  children  —  as  they 
breed  horses  —  oh,  there  are  hundreds  of  women  I 
could  find.  There  is  Miss  Cash,  for  instance.  She 
seems  to  be  healthy,  and  a  healthy  mind,  too.  What 
is  that  Latin  phrase  —  a  healthy  mind  in  a  healthy 
body?  She  must  have  some  soul,  because  she  is  your 
friend  —  but  I  have  not  seen  it.  If  I  had  to  choose 
between  daughters  like  her,  who  would  live  a  thousand 
years  and  daughters  like  you  —  do  you  think  I  would 
hesitate?     You  are  my  Beloved." 

He  came  and  knelt  beside  her  and  kissed  her.  The 
storm  had  blown  itself  out. 

"  I  cannot  understand  how  you  people  live,  and  so 
I  am  made  angry,'1  he  said,  apologetically.  "  I  would 
go  mad  if  I  lived  here  long.  It  seems  inexpressibly 
cruel  —  heartless  —  soulless !  You  people  think  of 
love  as  something  to  found  a  family  on,  and  we  —  my 
people  —  think  of  love  as  a  step  in  the  ladder  up  to 
God. 

"  Beloved,  we  cannot  know  what  Allah  has  written 
in  the  Book.  But  in  His  mercy,  He  has  granted  us 
this  morning  together.  It  is  worth  all  the  rest.  Let 
us  give  ourselves  to  love  as  long  as  may  06." 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  cheek  to 
his  and  a  verv  luminous  silence  fell  on  them. 


EUNICE  AND  THE  GARDEN  261 

A  few  minutes  after  noon  a  latchkey  grated  in  the 
door  and  Helen's  cheery  voice  gave  Eunice  a  hail  down 
the  hall.  They  had  scant  time  to  arrange  their  spirits 
for  this  shock  of  reality.  Even  in  lesser  moments, 
Helen  was  disconcerting  to  Lane.  It  was  a  relief  that 
Eunice  whispered  "  go." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Lane,"  Helen  said,  in  a  voice  which 
seemed  boisterous  to  the  two,  who,  till  her  interrup- 
tion, had  been  immersed  in  mystery.  "  Glad  to  see 
you !  You'll  stay  to  lunch  with  us,  of  course.  Jenny, 
lay  another  plate  for  Mr.  Lane." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said.  "  I  have  an  engagement. 
I  am  late  already.     I  must  hurry." 

"  Sorry,"  she  said,  as  she  walked  with  him  to  the 
door.  "  I'm  never  at  home  in  the  morning  —  have  to 
be  in  my  office.  Come  in  for  tea  some  afternoon  — 
soon.     I'm  keen  for  an  argument  about  '  Efficiency.' 

"  I  like  him,"  she  said,  as  she  came  back  to  the 
room,  where  Eunice  was  still  stretched  out  on  the 
couch.  "  But  he  is  a  bit  stupid.  I'm  sure  I  told  him 
I'm  never  at  home  in  the  mornings.  Come  along. 
It's  time  for  lunch." 

Eunice  was  reluctant  to  leave  the  couch,  where  he 
had  laid  her,  where  he  had  kissed  her,  where  Love  had 
crowned  her.  She  would  have  liked  to  lie  there 
motionless  till  Death  called  her. 

Helen  had  to  summon  her  to  lunch  a  second  time. 

Helen  did  most  of  the  talking;  chatting  about  her 
work,  their  friends,  and  frequently  referring  to  Lane. 

All  the  pride  which  had  been  in  Eunice  shriveled 
up.  She  knew  that  Helen  would  consider  this  affair 
shameful  —  even  as  her  own  reason  had  told  her  from 


262  THE  STRANGER 

the  first  that  she  ought  to  consider  it.  The  fact  that 
it  was  so  hard  to  tell  her  dearest  friend  about  this 
great  event  made  it  seem  unworthy.  And  even  more 
shameful  it  seemed,  a  treachery  to  her  Beloved,  not 
to  tell. 

At  last  she  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Helen  spoke 
again  as  if  it  were  a  misunderstanding  of  her  regular 
hours  which  had  led  him  to  call  in  the  morning. 

"  Oh,  he  knew,"  Eunice  said  painfully.     "  He  came 
to  see  me." 
{    Helen  looked  up  at  her  sharply. 

"  Oh,  yes.  About  that  Moorish  picture.  How's  it 
going?  " 

"  We  talked  about  that  —  a  little  —  at  first " 


The  words  would  not  come.  But  she  wanted  Helen 
to  know.  She  was  glad  to  feel  the  color  flaming  in 
her  cheeks. 

"  You  don't  mean " 

"  Yes.  He  wants  me  to  go  with  him  —  to  his  own 
country." 

"  But  it's  impossible !  " 

"  Yes.  Nell,  dear,  of  course,  it's  impossible.  But, 
oh,  I  can't  talk  about  it  now.     I  must  think." 

She  got  up  unsteadily,  stood  for  a  moment  over  her 
unfinished  lunch,  looking  into  the  face  of  her  friend. 
Then  she  shivered  and  turned  hurriedly  to  her  room. 

Helen's  incredulous  expression  showed  her  only  too 
clearly  what  the  verdict  of  all  rational  people  would 
be. 

Helen  was  utterly  dumfounded  by  Eunice's  confes- 
sion. The  first  rush  of  feeling  was  that  the  affair 
was    unspeakably    ghastly.     It    reminded    her    of    a 


EUNICE  AND  THE  GARDEN  263 

hideous  poem  of  Swinburne's  about  a  mediaeval  clerk 
and  his  love  for  a  noble  lady r  who  had  been  smitten 
by  the  pest.  It  quite  spoiled  her  appetite.  The  coffee 
she  sipped  was  not  half  so  black  as  her  thoughts.  She 
hurried  out,  to  walk  uptown  to  her  office,  hoping  that 
exercise  would  clear  her  mind. 

Lane  had  taken  refuge  in  a  cigar  store  on  the 
corner.  He  waited  impatiently  until  he  saw  Helen 
leave  the  house,  then  he  rushed  to  the  telephone. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  caught  Eunice's  voice. 
"  She's  gone.     I'm  coming  back  —  right  away " 

"  No.  Please.  You  must  not  come  again  to-day. 
To-morrow  —  perhaps.  It's  all  so  new.  I  must  be 
alone  a  while  to  think.  I'll  let  you  know  when  to 
come.  You  must  pray  to  your  God,  Beloved  —  and 
I  will  pray  to  all  of  mine." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HELEN   DOES   HER  DUTY 

What  really  troubled  Helen  most,  although  she  was 
far  from  realizing  it,  was  the  wound  to  her  amour 
propre.  There  is  nothing  in  life  more  painful.  Noth- 
ing, which  can  happen  to  our  bodies  —  having  a  nerve 
extracted  from  a  tootli  or  being  crushed  beneath  some 
Juggernaut  —  is  such  anguish,  is  so  utterly  discon- 
certing as  to  have  that  little  foundation  of  self-con- 
ceit, in  which  we  base  our  lives,  knocked  to  pieces. 
This  was  what  it  meant  to  Helen  to  discover  that  the 
Stranger,  Lane,  preferred  Eunice! 

Helen's  reason,  of  which  she  was  so  proud,  was  a 
frail  little  bark,  riding  just  as  insecurely  on  the 
tumultuous,  treacherous  waves  of  the  ocean  of  subcon- 
sciousness as  Eunice's  had  been  —  as  yours  and  mine 
are.  Helen  did  not,  could  not,  understand  what  was 
happening  to  her.  She  was  quite  sincere  in  believ- 
ing that  the  outrage  she  felt  came  solely  from  the 
shocking  disregard  for  the  reasonable  demands  of 
eugenics,  which  this  love  affair  betrayed. 

A  complicated  muddle  of  circumstances,  over  which 
she  had  no  control,  all  of  which  she  ignored,  had  been 
conspiring  for  her  overthrow. 

It  is  the  fashion  nowadays  to  begin  with  biology. 
Helen  was  a  magnificent  animal.  She  had  hardly 
known  a  sick  day  in  her  life.     She  came  from  a 

264 


HELEN  DOES  HER  DUTY  265 

healthy,  vital,  reproducing  stock.  She  was  past 
thirty.  The  most  delicate  part  of  her  physical  organ- 
ism, the  part  most  intimately  connected  with  her 
nervous  system,  a  part  nearly  concerned  with  all 
spiritual  values,  was,  in  a  voiceless  but  efficient  way, 
protesting  against  disuse.  Her  children  were  ten 
years  overdue. 

Sentimentally,  also,  she  was  passing  through  a 
crisis.  Her  long,  tender  intimacy  with  Pete  had  satis- 
fied the  minimum  demands  of  her  emotions.  Now, 
that  he  had  turned  away,  she  felt  distressingly  iso- 
lated. Eunice  did  a  great  deal  to  fill  the  blank  space 
in  her  heart.  But  every  one  who  knew  Eunice  felt 
poignantly  that  she  was  not  here  for  long.  With 
increasing  frequency  Helen  had  to  fight  against  a 
mood  of  lassitude.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she 
occasionally  found  the  work  on.  her  desk  dropping 
out  of  focus,  and  the  eyes  of  her  spirit  peering  forth 
at  a  singularly  void  and  barren  future. 

Besides,  she  had  come  to  a  point  where  her  work 
no  longer  offered  much  novelty.  She  was  no  longer 
the  ardent,  intensely  interested  youngster  who  had 
refused  marriage  in  the  abstract  when  Pete  had  made 
his  concrete  proposals.  The  struggle  for  recogni- 
tion was  over.  She  had  made  her  mark,  had  built 
for  herself  a  place  in  the  world.  And  when  the  thrill 
of  building  is  over  our  spirits  droop  a  little.  "  Mov- 
ing in  "  is  always  something  of  a  disillusion.  Even 
as  Alexander  wept  when  there  were  no  more  worlds 
left  to  conquer,  so  a  woman  sighs  when  the  last  room 
of  the  longed-for  abode  is  furnished,  when  the  last 
picture  is  hung.     If  Helen  was  ever  going  to  com- 


266  THE  STRANGER 

bine  her  professional  success,  which  had  lost  its  first 
thrill,  with  matrimony,  now  was  manifestly  the  ac- 
cepted time. 

At  this  juncture  the  Stranger  had  appeared. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  say  at  what  point,  or  to 
what  extent,  Helen  had  fallen  in  love  with  him. 
"  Falling  in  love  "  is  so  distressingly  vague  a  term. 
Certainly  she  had  not  admitted  to  herself  any  such 
fall.     She  did  not  even  realize  that  she  had  stumbled. 

At  first  he  had  seemed  "  queer  "  to  her,  so  much 
in  need  of  "  a  keeper  " —  there  were  so  many  obvious 
corrections  to  make.  She  loved  "  setting  things 
right."  That  antiquated  collar  of  his  had  typified 
a  great  deal.  Then,  she  had  realized  that  he  was  a 
good  deal  more  than  an  amusing  freak.  She  had  been 
impressed  by  the  real  liking  which  Win  and  Frank 
and  Pete  had  shown  for  him.  She  took  little  stock  in 
"ladies'  men."  A  man  whom  men  liked  was  worth 
attention.  But  it  was  not  till  he  had  spoiled  her 
speech  on  efficiency  that  he  had  really  taken  hold  of 
her  imagination. 

There  is  an  Oriental  tale  he  might  have  told  her 
of  a  Mongol  princess,  a  barbarian  Amazon,  who  chal- 
lenged all  her  suitors  to  a  wrestling  bout.  Their 
heads  were  forfeit,  if  she  defeated  them.  Of  course, 
a  Prince  of  India  arrives  at  last  who  succeeds  in 
throwing  her.  They  marry  and  live  happily  ever 
after.  In  a  match  of  wits,  Lane  had  tripped  her  easily 
and  had  sprawled  her  flat  on  her  back. 

She  knew  that  her  brains  were  better  than  most 
men's.  There  was  no  false  conceit  in  this.  It  was 
quite  true.     Time  and  again,  on  one  committee  or  an- 


HELEN  DOES  HER  DUTY  267 

other,  she  had  advocated  some  course  of  action,  had 
been  voted  down  —  by  men  —  and  then  proved  right 
by  the  event.  Being  so  often  right,  she  had  grown  a 
bit  cocksure  and  dogmatic.  It  was  an  entirely  un- 
usual experience  for  her  to  be  upset  and  confused  by 
a  few  chance  words  —  as  had  resulted  from  her  talk 
with  Lane  about  efficiency.  Here  was  a  man  on  whom 
she  could  not  impose  her  dictums. 

More  and  more  her  few  idle  minutes  had  been  filled 
with  planning  how  to  overcome  the  first  bad  impres- 
sion which  she  knew  she  had  made  on  him.  And 
the  more  she  thought  about  this,  the  more  necessary 
it  seemed  to  succeed.  This  was  the  crux  of  the  whole 
matter.  She  was  used  to  admiration,  and  this 
Stranger  did  not  admire.  It  was  a  challenge.  It 
was  supremely  necessary  to  cure  him  of  thinking  that 
she  was  only  a  glib  talker.  She  had  not  doubted 
that  she  could  accomplish  this. 

Now,  in  spite  of  her  being  thus  amiably  disposed, 
he  had  calmly  preferred  Eunice! 

Not  having  analyzed  her  situation,  not  really  under- 
standing what  she  felt  about  it,  nor  why,  she  was  in- 
expressibly shocked.  Of  course  marriage  between 
them  was  impossible.  Eunice  ought  not  to  have  al- 
lowed things  to  come  to  this  pass.  Even  in  this 
matter  of  mating,  Helen  believed  that  this  is  a  rea- 
sonable world,  that  we  are  the  captains  of  our  souls. 
She  could  not  recall  any  time  when  she  had  not  been 
able  to  act  as  a  reasonable  being.  Eunice  ought  not 
to  have  permitted  herself  to  love  Lane  —  much  less 
to  have  allowed  him  to  become  involved. 

As   she    walked    uptown,    Eunice's    responsibility 


268  THE  STRANGER 

in  the  matter  was  what  distressed  her  most.  It  was 
certainly  unreasonable  of  her  —  sick,  probably  on  the 
edge  of  the  grave,  certainly  unfit  for  motherhood  — 
to  have  let  a  man  propose  to  her. 

But  in  all  her  intercourse  with  Eunice  she  had 
never  known  her  to  act  unworthily.  There  was  a  pos- 
sibility that  she  did  not  realize  how  desperate  was 
her  condition.  Dr.  Riggs  had  said  he  had  not  told 
her.  Helen  clutched  at  this  possibility.  Partly  be- 
cause it  was  plausible,  more  because  she  did  not  want 
to  believe  that  Eunice,  knowing  the  truth,  had  hidden 
it.  No,  she  was  altogether  too  fine  a  person  to  be 
capable  of  tricking  him.     Evidently  she  did  not  know. 

The  corollary  was  obvious.  Lane  ought  to  be  told. 
She  could  not  speak  to  Eunice  about  it,  the  doctor's 
orders  were  explicit.  But  Lane  had  a  right  to  know. 
Plainly  it  was  her  duty  to  tell  him. 

So  when  she  got  to  her  office  she  wrote  a  note. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Lane: 

"I'm  sorry  you  could  not  stay  to  lunch  with  us  to-day.  I 
very  much  want  to  have  a  good  talk  with  you.  You  don't  know 
how  much  you  upset  me  with  your  criticism  of  my  gospel  of 
efficiency.  It's  only  fair  for  you  to  give  me  a  chance  to  argue 
it  out. 

"I'm  horribly  rushed  these  days,  but  I  happen  to  be  free  to- 
night. If  this  note  finds  you  before  five,  call  me  up  at  my  office 
(Stuyvesant  7009)  and  let  me  know  if  we  can  have  dinner  to- 
gether. You  might  take  me  to  the  Turkish  restaurant  you  spoke 
of.  I'd  like  some  more  of  that  Oriental  cooking.  I  do  hope 
you'll  be  free.  "  Cordially, 

"Helen  Cash." 

She  sent  it  by  messenger  boy  to  his  rooms.  It  ar- 
rived an  hour  after  he  had  returned  from  his  fruitless 


HELEN  DOES  HER  DUTY  269 

telephone  conversation  with  Eunice.  At  first  he  had 
tried  to  settle  down  to  thought,  but  it  was  impossible. 
Those  moments  with  his  Beloved  had  set  all  his  nerves 
on  fire.  Music  was  necessary  to  him  and  he  had  taken 
down  from  his  mantelpiece  the  strange  instrument 
whose  name  Win  could  not  pronounce.  It  calmed 
him  somewhat  to  busy  his  hands  with  the  playing. 
And  presently  a  great  longing  came  over  him  to 
share  with  Eunice  the  comfort  which  one  of  the  songs 
he  hummed  brought  to  him.  Again  he  wished  that 
she  knew  Arabic.  He  put  aside  the  r'bab  and  set  to 
work  translating  the  verses.  He  was  just  finishing  a 
rough  version,  when  Helen's  note  of  invitation  ar- 
rived. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  refuse.  He  wondered  if 
Eunice  had  told  Helen.  It  would  be  a  hard  matter 
to  discuss  with  her.  But  he  had  been  long  enough  in 
his  room  to  realize  keenly  the  emptiness  of  the  even- 
ing before  him  —  and  perhaps  she  would  talk  of 
Eunice.  So  he  called  her  up  and  said  he  would  be 
charmed. 

"  If  you  care  to,"  she  replied,  "  come  early  —  about 
five  —  and  I'll  show  you  bow  we've  organized  charity 
in  New  York." 

A  few  minutes  before  the  hour,  he  knocked  at  her 
office  door. 

"  Hello,"  she  greeted  him.  "  Just  a  second  —  till 
I  finish  up.     Sit  down.     You  can  smoke." 

Until  the  clock  struck  five,  she  was  busy  signing 
letters  and  giving  instructions  to  her  assistants. 

"There,"  she  said,  twinging  round  in  her  pivot 


270  THE  STRANGER 

chair  as  the  Metropolitan  clock  finished  its  chime. 
"  To-day's  little  job  finished.  I'm  awfully  glad  you 
could  come.  I  want  to  show  you  what  I  mean  by  ef- 
ficiency." 

The  sight  of  him  had  disconcerted  her  somewhat. 
She  was  glad  that  there  was  this  long-standing  topic 
of  discussion  to  fall  back  on.  She  did  not  want  to 
jump  directly  into  her  main  business. 

She  proceeded  to  give  him  a  little  lecture  on  the 
organization  of  alms.  In  former  unenlightened  days 
sham  beggars  had  defrauded  gullible  people;  the  de- 
serving poor,  in  real  need,  got  no  adequate  help. 
Charity  had  been  a  haphazard  chaos.  But  gradually, 
in  accordance  with  the  spirit  of  the  times,  all  this 
work  of  relieving  distress  was  being  put  on  a  sound, 
businesslike  basis  of  efficiency.  She  told  him  about 
the  various  card  catalogues.  She  explained  the  func- 
tions of  the  friendly  visitors  and  the  school  in  which 
these  professional  almoners  are  trained.  She  went 
through  the  list  of  the  various  societies,  which  had 
offices  in  the  building,  and  told  how  they  were  being 
coordinated,  so  that  all  the  ground  would  be  covered 
and  no  one  would  poach  on  the  special  preserves  of 
another.  She  told  how  in  recent  years  a  new  category 
of  associations  had  been  growing  up  with  the  object, 
not  of  relieving,  but  of  preventing  misery. 

Then  she  told  of  her  own  work.  She  was  trying  to 
organize  —  to  efficiency-ize  —  charity  at  its  source. 
She  was  working  out  practical,  almost  scientific, 
methods  to  fund  alms,  methods  to  persuade  those  who 
gave  little  to  give  more,  those  who  gave  nothing  to 
give  something.     In  five  different  charities,  one  after 


HELEN  DOES  HER  DUTY  271 

another,  by  introducing  efficiency  in  soliciting  sup- 
port, she  had  more  than  doubled  their  income. 

"  These  methods  are  being  applied  elsewhere.  A 
young  man  I  have  trained  has  just  started  to  work 
for  the  Association  for  the  Aid  of  Tubercular  Chil- 
dren. He  will  raise  two  or  three  times  more  for  these 
poor  little  cripples  than  has  ever  been  done  before. 
Have  you  any  objection  to  make  to  such  efficiency?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  of  course  not.     It  is  wonderful." 

"  Well,  it's  what  I  mean  by  the  gospel  of  efficiency. 
It's  doing  things  right  —  getting  away  from  slipshod, 
rule-of-thumb  methods.  Gradually  we  are  introduc- 
ing new  —  efficient  —  methods  in  all  departments  of 
life.  Eugenics  means  efficiency  in  producing  a  new 
generation  —  doing  it  right  instead  of  leaving  it  to 
accident.  All  this  study  of  child  psychology  and 
hygiene  means  that  we  are  learning  how  to  supplant 
the  old,  hit-or-miss,  traditional  way  of  bringing  up 
children  by  efficient  child  culture.  Every  day  some 
new  efficiency  is  being  introduced  into  education. 
All  these  political  experiments  — '  referendum,'  i  City 
Commissions  ' —  mean  that  we  are  determined  to  be 
governed  efficiently.  The  Socialists  and  trust  mag- 
nates are  striving  —  more  or  less  intelligently,  but 
very  earnestly  —  to  organize  efficient  methods  of  in- 
dustry. The  growing  recognition  of  the  value  of  ef- 
ficiency—  in  all  phases  of  life  —  is  the  most  signifi- 
cant thing  in  our  modern  civilization." 

Helen  had  said  all  this  many  times  before;  it  was 
part  of  her  ruined  speech.  As  she  repeated  it  now 
to  Lane,  it  sounded  just  as  ineffectual  as  when  she 
had  delivered  it  to  that  New  Jersey  women's  club. 


272  THE  STRANGER 

"  It  is  very  interesting,"  he  said  politely. 

"  You  don't  think  so  at  all/'  she  retorted,  much 
aggrieved  at  his  perfunctory  tone.  "  Why  can't  you 
treat  me  like  an  equal  and  argue  it  out?  Don't  you 
think  I've  enough  brains?  " 

?  That  is  not  it  at  all,"  he  said,  in  distress.  "  I 
did  not  mean  that.  Only  it  is  hard  to  argue  with  you 
and  your  friends  —  our  standards  of  value  are  so 
different.  The  truth  of  what  you  say  is  so  obvious. 
Only  I  cannot  see  in  it  a  saving  gospel. 

"  Even  our  first  parents  must  have  valued  efficiency 
above  inefficiency.  Every  one  who  is  not  an  idiot 
must.  It  is  like  morals.  Every  one  puts  good  above 
evil  —  but  we  all  need  forgiveness.  Life  is  too  big 
—  too  complex.  Nobody  but  God  can.be  all  good. 
You  have  a  curious  joke  in  America  —  it  strikes  me, 
a  stranger,  as  curious,  but  it  holds  a  great  deal  of 
truth.  When  you  say  a  man  is  '  good  to  his  mother,' 
you  mean  that  he  is  not  much  good  to  other  people. 
Very  often  to  help  this  one,  you  must  do  ill  to  an- 
other. Our  Lord  Jesus  said  to  leave  father  and 
mother  and  wife  and  children  to  follow  Him.  That 
must  have  seemed  very  bad  to  Joseph  and  Mary. 
They  must  fcave  thought  He  lacked  filial  piety. 

"  It  is  the  same  with  wisdom.  We  cannot  be  all 
wise  —  there  is  too  much  to  know.  If  we  make  up 
our  mind  to  study  very  hard  one  subject  —  let  us 
say,  languages,  as  I  have  done  —  we  are  sure  to  be 
foolish  and  ignorant  in  other  things  —  as  I  am. 

"  So  many  of  you  Westerners  fight  for  freedom. 
It  seems  to  me  evident  that  we  can  not  be  free  in 
every    relation.     This,    of    course,    is    no    argument 


HELEN  DOES  HER  DUTY  273 

against  wisdom  and  liberty.  Only  I  think  it  is  neces- 
sary to  decide  which  wisdom  and  which  freedom  is 
worth  striving  for.  It  is  the  same  with  health,  with 
strength,  with  speed  and  wealth. 

"  It  is  the  same,  I  think,  about  your  gospel  of  ef- 
ficiency. None  of  us  can  be  efficient  in  everything. 
Life  is  too  big.  We  must  pick  out  some  direction  and 
try  to  be  good  and  wise  and  strong  and  efficient  in 
that.  To  me,  a  religion  which  preaches  only  health 
or  knowledge  or  liberty  or  skill  is  just  empty 
words. 

"  If  I  were  a  new  Messiah,  I  would  not  preach  such 
qualities.  I  would  say :  '  My  children,  only  God  can 
be  all  good.  You  can  only  be  good  a  very  little.  Try 
to  be  virtuous  in  this  relation  —  in  the  eyes  of  God 
it  is  most  important.  Only  God  can  be  all  wise.  At 
best  your  knowledge  will  be  trifling.  It  is  expedient 
for  you  to  gather  all  the  wisdom  you  can  on  this  sub- 
ject—  so  will  you  most  please  God.  You  are  weak, 
human  beings;  you  cannot  be  always  in  all  things 
efficient.  Let  all  your  will,  all  your  skill  be  bent  in 
this  direction,  toward  this  goal  —  so  will  you  progress 
in  the  path  of  God.'  I  would  not  preach  qualities. 
I  would  preach  aspirations." 

"  Well,  what  goal  would  you  preach?  " 

"  But  I  am  not  a  Messiah.  I  am  only  one  of  the 
little  children  who  are  seeking  to  find  the  goal.  That 
is  the  puzzle  of  life  to  us  in  the  East.  The  riddle 
of  the  Sphinx. 

"Have  we  found  the  answer  —  the  master  truth, 
which  will  make  us  one  with  God?  No,  at  least  not 
many  of  us.     Perhaps  there  are  a  few  of  our  holy 


274  THE  STRANGER 

men,  who  have  found  the  path ;  once  —  possibly  twice 
or  thrice  —  have  seen  God  face  to  face. 

"  There  is  one  story  in  your  New  Testament  which 
seems  wonderfully  wise  to  me  —  about  the  Mount  of 
Transfiguration.  You  remember  our  Lord  Jesus  led 
two  of  His  disciples  up  on  to  a  high  mountain  and 
showed  them  the  glory  of  God.  Well,  the  disciples 
wanted  to  build  temples  and  live  there  always.  But 
their  Master  had  more  sense.  He  brought  them  down 
again.  None  of  us  are  wise  and  pure  enough  to  live 
all  our  lives  in  the  presence  of  God. 

"  I  think  all  the  faking  and  all  the  fraud  in  all 
religions  is  explained  by  that  story.  After  earnest 
striving  men  have  approached  the  presence  of  God. 
They  have  wanted  to  stay  there  in  the  glory  always. 
They  have  pretended  to  others  —  at  last  have  de- 
ceived themselves  into  thinking  —  that  they  could  see 
God  whenever  they  want  to. 

"  God  only  talked  to  Moses  once  in  a  while  —  in 
the  Burning  Bush  —  on  Mount  Sinai.  But  I  think 
Moses  pretended  sometimes  —  to  keep  his  hold  on  the 
people  —  that  his  own  words  came  from  God.  It  was 
the  same  with  Mohammed  —  I  think.  I  doubt  if  God 
objects  to  music  and  painting.  But  Mohammed 
thought  such  things  were  wrong  and  —  to  make  the 
people  believe  —  he  said  Gabriel  had  told  him. 

"  I  do  not  think  that  any  religion  has  found  all  the 
Truth.  If  we  knew  everything  we  would  already  be 
divine.  But  I  think  some  people  —  not  only  in  the 
biblical  times,  but  also  in  our  day  —  climb  the  Mount 
of  Transfiguration  —  see  all  of  God's  glory  they  can 
comprehend  —  once  in  a  lifetime  —  perhaps  twice  or 


HELEN  DOES  HER  DUTY  275 

thrice.  I  never  have.  But  the  hope  makes  life  worth 
living. 

"Efficiency?  Yes,  by  all  means!  Let  us  run  the 
race  that  is  set  before  us  as  fast  as  may  be.  But 
speed  will  not  help  us  if  we  are  on  the  wrong  track. 
What  does  it  matter  that  Burns  —  the  greatest  of 
your  poets,  I  think  —  was  a  very  poor  customs  official? 
Does  it  matter  whether  Our  Lord  Jesus  was  a  skillful 
carpenter?  Or  whether  the  prophet  was  an  efficient 
camel  driver?  No,  their  business  was  to  preach  the 
word  which  God  had  given  them.  And,  being  very 
sure  of  their  high  calling,  knowing  beyond  any  doubt 
what  they  had  to  do,  they  did  it  well.  Speed?  Effi- 
ciency? All  these  fine  qualities  help  us  only  if  we 
are  on  the  true  path.  They  may  lead  us  even  farther 
astray,  if  we  have  lost  our  way." 

"And  you  think  I've  lost  my  way?" 

"How  could  I  know?  Only  one  thing  is  sure. 
Your  way  will  be  different  from  mine.  Just  as  I 
have  sacrificed  many  kinds  of  wisdom  to  my  special 
knowledge,  so  you  must  have  sacrificed  something  to 
your  efficiency.  Was  it  a  good  bargain?  That  is 
something  which  no  one  can  decide  for  another. 

"  Your  path  looks  clear  to  you.  You  are  very  sure 
of  your  task  —  or  you  could  not  do  it  so  well.  Cer- 
tainly it  is  noble  work  —  relieving  distress.  But 
here,  again,  our  standards  are  all  different.  It  would 
not  be  attractive  to  me  —  your  work.  Yes,  our 
standards  are  different.  Our  Prophet,  even  more 
than  yours,  bade  us  give  from  our  fullness  to  those 
who  are  empty.  We  give  alms  —  more,  I  think,  than 
the  Christians  —  but  from  such  a  different  spirit. 


276  THE  STRANGER 

You  see  the  coin  and  the  misery  it  will  relieve  and  we 
see  the  sweet  spirit  of  kindliness  which  stirs  one  to 
share  abundance  with  distress.  A  young  man  comes 
riding  into  market  on  his  ass  and,  seeing  a  feeble, 
blind  beggar,  gets  off  and  puts  the  old  man  in  the 
saddle  and  trudges  along  beside  him  to  hold  him  on. 
We  both  feel  that  it  is  a  beautiful  thing.  You  are 
glad  that  the  old  man  is  saved  the  long  dusty  walk. 
We  are  glad  that  the  young  man  was  so  kind. 

"  I  have  been  very  hungry  —  very  often  —  and  I 
have  begged  and  have  been  fed.  Always  I  have  said 
a  prayer  to  the  Most  Merciful,  a  prayer  of  rejoicing  to 
bear  witness  that  there  is  some  of  His  mercy  among 
His  creatures.  I  would  not  like  to  take  alms  from  a 
society.  I  would  not  know  for  whom  to  say  Fatihah 
—  our  prayer  of  thanks." 

Some  of  what  he  said  Helen  did  not  comprehend. 
She  had  been  quite  truthful  when  she  had  said  to 
Eunice :  "  I  don't  go  in  for  this  esoteric  and  mystic 
business."  His  talk  of  "  seeing  God  face  to  face  " 
was  a  blank  to  her. 

Their  standards  of  value  were  certainly  different. 
She  was  not  used  to  grown  men  who  spoke  so  simply 
of  saying  their  prayers.  It  embarrassed  her.  And 
having  been  occupied  so  long  with  the  routine  busi- 
ness of  charity,  she  could  not  help  feeling  that  it  was 
shameful  to  beg.  It  seemed  to  show  a  lack  of  proper 
pride,  of  self-respect,  to  admit  so  frankly  of  having 
asked  for  alms.  How  to  argue  with  a  man  whose 
point  of  view  was  so  different?  If  people  are  hungry 
they  need  food ;  it  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  they 
might  also  want  "  to  give  thanks." 


HELEN  DOES  HER  DUTY  277 

Much  of  what  he  said  was  disturbingly  hard  to 
answer.  After  all  it  really  did  not  matter  that  Bob- 
bie Burns  had  miserably  fumbled  His  Britannic 
Majesty's  customs  service. 

It  was  a  very  simple,  but,  in  a  way,  an  intensely 
dramatic  scene.  Helen  was  always  economical 
on  "  office  expenses,"  trying  to  "  reduce  overhead 
charges,"  so  there  was  only  one  electric  light  burning. 
As  the  night  fell  on  the  city  outside,  it  emphasized  the 
hard  brilliance  which  this  green-shaded  lamp  threw 
on  her  desk  —  her  so  orderly,  business-like  desk.  She 
still  sat  in  her  pivot  chair  and  the  penumbra  of  the 
light  fell  on  her  face.  It  was  a  fine,  strong  face,  a 
mature  face,  the  little  lines  of  hard  thinking,  of  hard 
work  were  beginning  to  show  about  the  eyes  and  they 
were  rather  emphasized  by  her  distress  over  Eunice, 
by  her  feeling  of  inability  to  come  to  terms  with  this 
Stranger,  with  whom,  more  than  ever,  she  felt  that 
she  must  come  to  terms.  Her  spirit  was  a  bit  hag- 
gard. 

Lane's  voice  came  out  of  the  semi-darkness,  its  tone 
even  and  soothing,  although  what  he  said  was  only 
the  more  distressing.  For,  as  she  had  not  replied, 
he  had  begun  to  talk  again. 

All  that  he  said  was  blasphemy,  and  the  sacrilege 
was  being  committed  in  the  Inner  Temple ;  for  Helen's 
office  was  her  Holy  of  Holies.  She  had,  if  not  a  re- 
ligion, at  least  a  ritual.  She  did  not  go  to  church 
on  Sundays  nor  to  a  mosque  on  Fridays  to  pray  for 
a  few  minutes,  but  six  days  a  week  she  approached 
with  reverence  her  roll-topped  altar  and  poured  out 
for  hours  on  end  the  very  best  there  was  in  her  in 


278  THE  STRANGER 

libation  to  the  god  she  could  not  name.  If  Lane 
could  have  really  understood  he  would  not  have 
scoffed  —  here  in  the  shrine  of  so  much  earnest  devo- 
tion. 

"  It  is  hard  to  formulate  such  things,"  he  was  say- 
ing. "  If  the  problem  were  once  clearly  stated  it 
would  be  half  solved.  But  this  is  part  of  it.  One 
of  my  earliest  memories  is  of  being  waked  up  in  the 
night  by  a  great  pounding  at  our  door  —  it  was  at  our 
house  in  Marakesh.  My  father  got  up  and  let  in  some 
men  —  mountaineers  from  the  Glawi.  The  Kaid,  who 
was  my  father's  friend,  had  been  wounded  in  a  light 
and  was  very  sick.  I  could  not  be  left  alone,  I  was 
only  a  little  shaver.  One  of  the  Kaid's  retainers 
wrapped  me  up  in  a  blanket  and  took  me  on  his  saddle- 
bow. We  rode  all  night  and,  changing  horses,  rode 
right  through  the  heat  of  the  day  and  all  the  next 
night.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  way  up  in 
the  mountains.  I  had  always  thought  they  were  the 
edge  of  the  world.  I  remember  how  surprised  I  was 
to  find  land  on  the  other  side  and  more  mountains 
beyond.  I  decided  that  the  world  must  be  very  big. 
Just  before  dawn  we  reached  the  Dar-el-Kaid  —  the 
fortress  of  the  Glawi.  I  was  very  stiff  from  riding 
so  long,  but  I  limped  after  my  father  into  the  Kald's 
room. 

"  I  remember  how  strong  men  held  him  down  while 
my  father  cut  off  his  leg  and  how  he  groaned  —  al- 
though he  was  a  brave  man.  There  were  other  men 
about,  who  held  lamps  and  torches  to  make  much 
light.  In  another  room  there  were  women,  who 
wailed.     I  remember  the  smell  —  of  course  I  did  not 


HELEN  DOES  HER  DUTY  279 

know  what  it  was  then  —  but  now  I  know.  It  was 
gangrene  —  a  smell  one  never  forgets.  It  was  all  like 
a  nightmare  —  only  much  worse.  And  when  my 
father  was  finished  and  was  washing  the  blood  off  his 
hands,  he  saw  me.  He  had  forgotten  there  was  such 
a  person  while  he  was  at  work.  '  Hello,  son/  he  said 
—  he  always  spoke  English  to  me  — '  if  I  had  got  here 
yesterday  I  could  have  saved  his  leg.  And  —  oh,  my 
God !  —  if  I  had  only  had  some  chloroform ! ' 

"  Well,  the  very  first  day  I  reached  America  — 
here  in  New  York  —  I  was  walking  along  the  street 
and  suddenly  a  woman  screamed.  She  had  been  run 
over  by  a  car.  Everything  happened  so  very  quickly. 
Almost  at  once,  I  heard  a  bell  clanging  up  the  streets. 
Everybody  got  out  of  the  way.  A  motor  ambulance 
tore  up.  A  doctor,  all  in  white,  jumped  off  and 
presently  the  whole  street  smelled  of  ether  and  the 
woman  stopped  screaming. 

"  It  seemed  more  wonderful  than  I  can  tell.  So 
quick !  So  sure !  Of  course  I  knew  from  books  that 
everything  was  not  perfect  and  joyous  in  America. 
But,  I  said  to  myself,  at  least  they  have  reduced 
physical  pain  to  a  minimum.  I  will  not  see  so  many 
people  suffering  as  I  do  at  home. 

"But  —  is  it  so?  I  have  been  here  more  than  a 
year.  I  cannot  see  that  all  your  marvelous  science 
and  antiseptics  and  surgical  skill  have  reduced  pain 
much.  You  spoke  of  the  tuberculosis  committee. 
You  say  you  have  learned  how  to  cure  and  prevent  it. 
But  still  so  many  people  die  of  it.  We  do  not  have 
it,  except  in  the  coast  towns  where  the  Europeans  have 
brought  it.     To  be  sure  you  have  made  an  end  of 


280  THE  STRANGER 

cholera  and  smallpox.  You  do  not  have  the  plague 
any  more.  But  still  in  the  end  you  all  die  —  as  we 
do.  You  have  increased  the  average  length  of  life 
a  little  —  a  few  more  years  of  just  such  suffering  as 
I  am  used  to.  But  you  have  not»escaped  pain.  Nor 
have  you  learned  how  to  bear  it. 

"  I  talked  not  long  ago  with  a  Red  Cross  nurse 
who  had  been  in  Turkey  during  the  Balkan  War.  '  It 
was  better  than  nursing  Christians/  she  said ;  '  they 
are  so  brave.  It  was  wonderful  the  way  they  died. 
I  have  never  seen  any  one  die  so  beautifully.  They 
are  not  afraid/  And  this  seems  to  me  the  most  im- 
portant. To  know  how  to  deaden  suffering  is  good, 
but  to  know  how  to  bear  it  is  better.  You  in  the 
West  have  done  so  much  more  than  we  to  combat 
pain  and  death.  But  when  at  last  you  can  no  longer 
escape,  you  are  more  afraid  than  we.  It  is  such 
things  I  do  not  understand." 

He  had  reached  the  end  of  his  discourse,  and  Helen, 
seeing  no  immediate  reply,  changed  the  subject. 

"  I'll  have  to  think  all  this  over.  Your  viewpoint 
is  so  strange  —  and  interesting.  A  new  viewpoint 
always  is.     But  it's  time  to  eat  now." 

He  took  her  to  an  Armenian  restaurant.  It  was 
a  dismal,  rather  dirty  place,  half  filled  with  somber, 
homesick  men.  But  all  their  faces  lit  up  with  wel- 
come when  Lane  came  in.  Most  of  them  at  one  time 
or  another  had  belonged  to  the  "  Brothers  of  the 
Hills."  They  knew  of  Lane's  exploits.  Memories  of 
the  brave  men  of  the  mountains  was  the  one  flaming 
reality  to  this  band  of  exiles.  Any  one  who  had 
killed  a  Cossack  was  sure  of  a  welcome. 


HELEN  DOES  HER  DUTY  281 

The  proprietor  hurried  up.  With  his  own  soiled 
handkerchief,  he  brushed  the  crumbs  off  a  chair  for 
Helen.     Lane  spoke  to  him  a  moment  in  Armenian. 

"  It  will  take  a  little  time  for  them  to  get  supper/' 
he  said,  sitting  down  opposite  Helen.  "  They  did  not 
have  anything  very  good  ready." 

Helen  was  in  a  funk.  She  had  asked  him  to  come 
with  the  definite  purpose  of  telling  him  about  Eunice's 
condition.  But  now  she  had  a  sinking  feeling  that 
it  would  be  very  difficult  to  find  the  words  to  move 
him.  There  was  an  intangible  quality  about  his  mind. 
Considerations  which  were  convincing  to  her  did  not 
seem  to  be  any  arguments  at  all  to  him.  She  was 
strangely  nervous  —  almost  hysterical.  She  had  a 
cowardly  impulse  to  postpone  the  matter  for  some 
more  favorable  opportunity.  It  even  occurred  to  her 
to  get  Win  to  intervene.  But  the  same  unconquer- 
able persistence,  the  same  reluctance  to  give  up 
matured  plans,  which  had  driven  her  to  bump  her  way 
through  her  speech  to  that  woman's  club,  while  know- 
ing that  it  was  a  failure,  now  pushed  her  ahead. 

All  the  afternoon  she  had  been  busy  at  that  most 
human  of  all  mental  processes  —  convincing  herself 
of  what  she  wanted  to  believe  —  distorting  disagree- 
able facts,  ignoring  some,  and  forcing  others  into  a 
more  acceptable  mold. 

She  was  much  too  fond  of  Eunice  to  believe  that 
she  had  willfully  deceived  Lane.  Evidently  therefore 
she  did  not  realize  the  seriousness  of  her  illness. 
What  could  be  more  plausible?  Eunice  so  rarely 
spoke  of  her  ailments.  It  was  all  very  plain  —  a  sad 
misunderstanding  of  hard  facts. 


282  THE  STRANGER 

Sad?  Yes.  But  there  is  no  gain  in  shedding  tears 
over  impossibilities.  Eugenics,  as  she  had  said  to 
Lane,  is  a  phase  of  the  general  movement  toward  ef- 
ficiency. A  violation  of  its  laws  —  or  what  are  called 
its  laws  —  seemed  to  her  especially  heinous.  If  you 
are  inefficient  in  business,  you  and  your  affairs  suffer. 
The  loss  is  your  own.  But  to  be  careless  or  wrong  in 
this  matter  is  to  strike  at  the  next  generation  —  the 
hope  of  the  world.  It  is  blasphemy  against  the  holy 
spirit  of  evolution,  the  unforgivable  sin  against  social 
progress.  Surely  Lane  was  reasonable  enough  to  see 
this  if  only  he  knew  the  facts. 

Besides  Helen  could  not  believe  that  he  really  cared 
for  Eunice  in  the  deep,  soul-tearing  way  which  spells 
tragedy.  Always  our  principal  hurt,  the  most  acute 
pain,  in  our  jealousies  is  the  conviction  that  the  love 
which  the  rival  has  deflected  from  us,  wThich  has 
passed  by  us  to  be  bestowed  on  another,  is  cheap  and 
of  small  worth  compared  to  our  own  emotions.  It 
was  humanly  impossible  for  Helen  to  think  that  this 
love  with  which  she  was  interfering  was  as  real  and 
important  as  that  which  was  springing  up  within  her. 
She  had  no  suspicion  that  her  motives  were  in  any  way 
selfish.  She  felt  herself  driven  to  an  unpleasant  duty. 
It  was  best  for  everybody  concerned  —  a  real  kindness 
—  that  Lane  should  know  the  truth. 

While  she  was  marshaling  these  arguments  in  her 
mind,  he  talked  of  indifferent  subjects.  Something 
he  said  about  his  studies  gave  her  a  chance  to  open 
a  new  subject  and  postpone  the  real  issue. 

"  Mr.  Lane,  are  you  planning  to  go  on  with  this 
work  of  Orientalism  all  your  life?  " 


HELEN  DOES  HER  DUTY  283 

"  Oh,  no.  It's  only  what  you  call  — '  a  pot- 
boiler/ " 

"  Well,  what  will  you  do  next?  " 

"How  do  I  know?  I  suppose  I'll  wander  about 
some  more.  I  want  to  visit  China.  And  some  time,  I 
hope,  I  will  go  back  to  my  own  country." 

"  Why  do  you  always  speak  of  yourself  as  a  Moor? 
You're  really  an  American." 

"  Yes,  legally,"  he  admitted,  "  because  my  father 
was.  His  father  came  here  from  Scotland.  But  their 
ancestors  —  like  yours  —  and  everybody's,  came  out 
of  the  Orient.  It  does  not  matter  what  our  national- 
ity is.  The  East  is  our  Grand  Fatherland.  But  is 
not  the  place  where  we  were  born,  the  country  of  our 
childhood,  that  we  know  best  and  love,  our  own 
land?" 

"  But  what  prospects  are  there  for  you  in  Morocco? 
You've  brains  and  abilities  which  would  be  useful 
here.  You  could  make  a  place  for  yourself.  Be  of 
real  service." 

"  No,  I  would  not  fit  in.  I  do  not  understand  your 
ways." 

"  You  could  learn." 

"I  could  learn?" 

There  was  an  uncertain  note  in  his  voice  which 
implied  distaste  —  perhaps  even  disdain.  Helen  had 
a  sudden  vision  of  a  Salvation  Army  lassie  asking 
a  ritualistic  archbishop  to  beat  a  tambourine  for  her 
on  the  street  corner  and  assuring  him,  when  he  said 
he  did  not  know  how,  that  he  could  learn.  Something 
very  like  venom  flooded  her.  She  wanted  to  strike 
back,  to  hurt  this  conceited  whelp  who  so  calmly 


284  THE  STRANGER 

scorned  all  her  ideals.  But  before  she  found  words, 
he  went  on : 

"  No,  really,  I  do  not  think  I  could  learn.  I  have 
thought  about  it  a  good  deal.  But  you  know  the 
proverb  —  old  dogs  and  new  tricks.  Always,  here, 
I  would  be  a  stranger.  I  could  not  learn  your  ways, 
if  I  tried." 

"  You  wouldn't  try,  even  if  you  thought  you  could 
learn.     You  despise  us !  " 

"  No,  not  at  all.  I  would  be  very  sorry  to.  It  is 
so  easy  and  so  very,  very  foolish  to  despise  people 
you  do  not  understand.  I  think  that  is  the  cause  of 
all  cruelties,  of  all  persecutions  and  wars  —  despising 
and  fearing  the  things  you  do  not  understand.  I 
have  really  tried  to  understand  you  and  your  ways 
and  I  have  failed.  But  it  is  my  fault,  not  yours. 
So  I  had  best  go  back  to  my  own  people." 

"  But  when  you  go  back,"  she  insisted,  "  what  will 
you  do  with  your  life?     Haven't  you  any  ambition?  " 

"  Why  —  just  what  I  have  always  been  doing  — 
go  on  thinking  about  the  problem  of  life  —  the  riddle 
of  the  Sphinx,  as  I  called  it  in  your  office  —  keep  on 
searching  for  the  master  truth  —  trying  to  find  my 
way  to  God.  Does  that  seem  an  unworthy  ambition 
to  you? 

"  To  me,"  he  added,  as  she  did  not  reply,  "  it 
seems  the  only  ambition  which  is  worth  while." 

If  she  had  given  him  time,  he  might  have  explained 
that  he  thought  this  ambition  to  find  one's  way  to 
God  was  the  motor  power  which  actuated  every  one 
who  sought  after  righteousness.  It  mattered  little 
what    word    they    chose,    Allah,    Brahma,    Jehovah, 


HELEN  DOES  HER  DUTY  285 

Humanity,  Justice,  Liberty  —  or  even,  Efficiency. 
He  felt  that  she  and  her  friends,  consciously  or  un- 
consciously, were  engaged  on  the  same  quest.  He 
only  questioned  the  wisdom  of  their  methods.  He  did 
not  think  they  would  discover  the  great  truth  amid 
the  bustle  and  clamor  of  their  strenuous  and  hurried 
activity.  But  perhaps  they  wTould.  He  was  certain 
that  he  was  more  likely  to  find  his  in  silent,  solitary 
places. 

Luckily  the  proprietor  came  out  of  the  kitchen  at 
this  moment,  followed  by  his  entire  staff  —  two 
waiters.  Lane  began  to  explain  to  her  the  various 
Armenian  dishes.  And  Helen,  who  had  no  appetite 
at  all,  ate  because  she  could  not  collect  her  wits  to 
speak. 

It  was  the  irony  of  her  situation  that  the  less  she 
came  to  terms  with  this  Stranger,  the  more  he  caught 
hold  of  her  imagination. 

In  all  her  life  she  could  not  recall  a  definitely  re- 
ligious mood.  She  had  never  "  sought  after  God." 
He  said  this  quest  was  the  one  aspiration  which 
seemed  worthy  to  him  —  this  thing  she  had  never 
done,  the  only  thing  he  could  respect. 

It  was  plain  that  gorging  herself  with  Armenian 
food  would  not  get  her  anywhere.  She  went  over 
again  the  arguments  which  had  held  her  mind  all  the 
afternoon  —  to  bolster  up  her  fainting  courage. 
Evidently  it  was  all  a  mistake.  Eunice  did  not 
realize  how  sick  she  was.  Lane  had  a  right  to  know. 
Her  duty  was  plain.  So  she  rushed  in  where  an 
ordinarily  sensible  angel  would  have  feared  to  tread. 

"  Mr.  Lane,"  she  said,  pushing  away  from  her  the 


286  THE  STRANGER 

plate  of  honey  and  almond  paste.  "  I  asked  you  to 
come  to-night  because  —  especially  —  I  wanted  to 
talk  to  you  about  Eunice." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  in  a  most  unencouraging  voice. 

The  only  reason  he  had  accepted  her  invitation 
was  the  hope  that  she  would  talk  about  Eunice.  But 
now  he  did  not  want  her  to.  It  was  so  evident  in 
his  voice  that  it  disconcerted  her.  It  precipitated 
her  into  a  brutality  of  expression  she  had  hoped  to 
avoid. 

"  Even  if  you  don't  want  to  talk  about  it,  I  think 
I  ought  to.  She  told  me  that  you'd  asked  her  to  marry 
you." 

"Yes,"  he  assented  doubtfully.  To  be  sure  the 
word  "  marriage  "  had  not  been  mentioned  between 
them,  but  perhaps  this  was  the  Western  way  of  speak- 
ing of  love.  Anyhow  he  might  have  asked  her  to 
marry  him,  if  it  had  occurred  to  him. 

"  I  know  you  mean  to  be  kind  to  her,"  Helen  went 
on.  "  But  —  you  don't  understand  how  sick  she  is 
—  perhaps  she  doesn't  know  herself.  But  she  hasn't 
long  to  live." 

"  Oh,"  he  said  calmly.     "  I  know.     She  told  me." 

"She  told  you?"  Helen  echoed  in  dismay. 

All  her  carefully  built  explanation  went  to  smash. 
He  had  known  all  the  time  —  and  still  he  loved  her ! 
This  was  a  possibility  Helen  had  not  thought  of. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  "she  told  me." 

For  a  moment  neither  of  them  spoke  and  then  she 
looked  at  him.  He  smiled  back  at  her  —  a  quick, 
sad  smile,  which  in  spite  of  her  dismay  seemed  mar- 
velous to  Helen. 


HELEN  DOES  HER  DUTY  287 

"  If  she  has  not  very  long  to  live  —  well  —  I  must 
love  her  all  the  more  now." 

Her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  chin  resting  on  her 
tightly  closed  fists,  she  looked  square  in  his  face  for 
a  moment ;  then  her  eyes  lost  their  focus  and  she  was 
"  gazing  off  into  space." 

To  her  reason  it  all  seemed  hideous.  But  her  rea- 
son was  soon  submerged.  His  calm  disregard  of 
death,  his  attitude  that  it  was  the  merest  trifle  beside 
love,  touched  her  emotions,  dazzled  and  fascinated  her. 
It  reminded  her  of  something  she  had  read  about  the 
early  Gauls.  In  the  days  before  Roman  civilization 
had  taught  them  fear  it  had  been  their  custom,  when 
the  gods  expressed  anger  by  thunderclaps  and  bolts 
of  lightning,  to  rush  out  of  their  houses  and  shoot 
arrows  at  the  sky  in  defiance.  So  puerile  —  yet  so 
almost  divine. 

For  the  first  time  she  realized  that  the  iron  had 
entered  her  own  heart.  She  was  what  is  called  "  in 
love"  with  this  Stranger.  Everything  else  in  life 
seemed  so  pitifully  small.  Her  triumphs,  her  mani- 
fold successes,  all  the  host  of  people  who  respected 
and  admired  her  —  how  cold !  In  this  principal  busi- 
ness of  life,  in  womanhood,  she  with  all  her  strength 
had  been  outstripped  by  Eunice,  the  embodiment  of 
weakness.  The  palms  in  the  only  victory  that  mat- 
tered she  had  failed  to  win. 

Her  dream  had  wilted  the  very  instant  it  had  blos- 
somed into  consciousness.  In  the  same  moment  she 
had  realized  that  his  love  for  Eunice  was  deep  and 
abiding  —  he  would  never  care  for  her. 

Worse,  very  much  worse,  than  any  personal  pain 


288  THE  STRANGER 

was  the  terrible  realization  that  she  had  been  disloyal 
to  Eunice. 

She  could  not  stand  any  more.  She  stood  up 
briskly,  pretending  to  remember  some  unfinished  work 
in  her  office  to  which  she  must  attend.  Luckily  it 
was  only  a  few  blocks  back  to  the  Charities  Build- 
ing. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WIN   AND  THE   STRANGER 

Having  put  Helen  into  the  elevator  of  the  Chari- 
ties Building,  Lane  was  faced  once  more  with  the 
problem  of  an  evening  alone.  He  walked  irresolutely 
out  onto  Fourth  Avenue.  This  unrest  at  the  thought 
of  being  left  to  himself  was  an  entirely  new  experi- 
ence to  him.     What  to  do? 

A  Westerner  would  probably  have  telephoned  to 
Eunice,  begging,  pleading  for  permission  to  come  to 
her.  But  she  had  said  that  she  wanted  to  be  alone 
—  at  least  for  this  day.  It  was  depressing  to  realize 
in  what  different  directions  their  desires  could  run. 

On  the  table  in  his  room  was  an  unopened  package 
of  books  which  had  come  that  morning.  They  were 
a  I  tout  China.  Perhaps  they  would  hold  his  interest. 
And  perhaps  there  might  be  a  letter  from  Eunice  in 
his  mail  box.     So  he  jumped  on  a  downtown  car. 

When  he  reached  his  door  he  realized  that  the  books 
would  not  interest  him.  There  was  no  mail  for  him 
in  his  box.  A  light  shone  through  the  transom  above 
Mathews'  door. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  express 
the  depth  of  his  gratitude  to  Win.  Through  him  he 
had  met  Eunice. 

If  you  or  I  should  encounter  our  Great  Experience 
in  Timbuktu,  we  would  not  be  more  surprised  than 

289 


290  THE  STRANGER 

Lane  had  been  to  find  Love  in  New  York.  He  had 
wandered  all  his  life,  but  this  trip  to  America  had 
been  his  most  distant  journey.  Here  on  the  very 
edge  of  his  explorations,  in  this  unknown  land,  he 
had  —  so  unexpectedly !  —  found  the  unifying  fact, 
the  thing  which  gave  cohesion  to  his  life. 

No  matter  where  he  went  nor  how  he  fared,  these 
people,  Win  and  his  group  of  friends,  would  have  su- 
preme significance.  They  had  done  him  a  service 
which  his  wildest  imagination  would  not  conceive  of 
repaying.  Always  he  had  been  a  friend  of  all  the 
world,  but  standing  there  in  the  ill-lit  hall,  in  his 
loneliness,  his  heart  went  out  to  Win  in  a  wave  of 
very  special  gratitude.     He  knocked. 

"  Hello,  Lane,"  Win  said,  as  he  opened  the  door. 
"  Glad  to  see  you.  I've  been  trying  to  get  hold  of 
you  the  last  few  days.  I  want  to  settle  up  for  that 
Thanksgiving  affair.     How  much  do  we  owe  you?" 

"  Oh,  please,  nothing  at  all.  The  debt  is  on  my 
side." 

"  That  won't  do,"  Win  said,  smiling  but  looking 
firm.  "  It  was  our  party.  You  were  our  guest.  We 
can't  let  you  pay  for  it.  Mrs.  Lockwood  has  asked 
me  a  couple  of  times  about  it,  says  that  you  promised 
to  tell  us  how  much  it  cost." 

"  It  was  so  very  little." 

But  Win  insisted. 

It  was  real  distress  for  Lane.  These  people,  to 
whom  he  owed  so  great  a  debt  of  gratitude,  would 
not  accept  a  small  gift  from  him.  But,  after  all,  it 
was  Eunice  who  had  made  him  promise  to  let  them 
share  the  cost. 


WIN  AND  THE  STRANGER  291 

"  My  Armenian  friends  sent  the  rugs  and  cushions 
over  by  an  apprentice,  so  that  did  not  cost  anything. 
The  property  man  at  the  theater  lent  me  the  costumes 
and  things  —  also  for  nothing.  I  paid  two  dollars 
and  a  half  to  have  them  brought  to  the  Studio  and 
taken  back.  I  gave  Hadji  Hamid  —  he  was  sheik  of 
the  Moors  —  five  dollars  to  buy  food  —  and  told  him 
to  spend  what  was  left  for  the  boys.  I  did  not  keep 
accounts.  I  have  no  receipts.  But  I  remember  that 
the  fruit  and  nuts  and  charcoal  cost  a  little  over  a 
dollar  —  one  dollar  and  thirty-five  cents,  I  think." 

"  That  makes  eight-eighty-five.  Are  you  sure 
that's  all?" 

"  I  think  so.  Unless  you  want  to  pay  me  for  what 
I  did.  I  spent  the  best  part  of  two  days  at  it.  I  do 
not  know  what  you  would  think  that  worth." 

"  Good  Lord !  "  Win  protested.  "  We're  not  trying 
to  insult  you.  The  idea  of  paying  you  never  occurred 
to  us.  We're  no  end  obliged  to  you.  It  would  have 
been  a  fiasco  if  you  hadn't  taken  an  interest  in  it. 
But  just  because  you  were  so  kind,  is  all  the  more 
reason  for  us  not  to  let  you  be  out  of  pocket  over  it. 
That's  the  way  we  always  do  — '  Dutch  treat ' —  we 
call  it.  You  see  we're  all  more  or  less  Socialists  and 
we  like  to  do  things  collectively.  But  you  mustn't 
think  we're  so  discourteous  as  to  try  to  pay  you  for 
your  kindness." 

He  counted  out  the  money  and  handed  it  to  Lane, 
who  accepted  it  reluctantly. 

"  I  thought  Socialists  believed  that  money  was  the 
worst  standard  for  valuing  things,"  he  said.  "  I  do 
not  like  to  take  this,  because  it  is  accepting  that 


292  THE  STRANGER 

standard.  Now  I  must  feel  that  I  ought  to  pay  you 
back  for  all  your  kindness  —  also  in  money.  And 
that  I  could  never  hope  to  do  even  if  I  were  very  rich. 
I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  putting  the  handful  of  coins 
in  his  pocket  —  and  resolving  to  give  it  to  the  first 
beggar  he  met  — "  that  we  had  to  talk  about  money." 

Win  was  mightily  discomfited.  "  Commercialism," 
the  referring  of  all  things  to  the  foot  rule  of  dollars 
and  cents  to  determine  their  value,  was  the  phase  of 
our  life  he  hated  most.  It  was  this  more  than  all 
else  which  had  pushed  him  into  revolt  and  Social- 
ism. It  was  very  unpleasant  to  have  given  Lane  the 
impression  that  he  insisted  on  introducing  this 
standard,  even  into  matters  of  friendship.  He 
jumped  from  these  unpleasant  ideas  to  another  sub- 
ject. 

"  You  were  saying  the  other  night  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  compare  two  civilizations  —  to  call  one 
the  better.  I'm  not  sure  you're  right  there.  Of 
course,  I'm  a  feminist,  and  perhaps  I'm  biased.  But 
isn't  the  condition  of  women  in  a  given  social  group 
a  criterion?     A  basis  of  comparison? 

"  For  instance,  at  the  time  of  the  Balkan  War,  I 
read  a  good  deal  about  those  little  countries.  In 
Bulgaria  forty-five  per  cent  —  nearly  half  —  of  the 
school  children  are  girls.  That  means  that  they  are 
trying  to  educate  their  women.  No  other  Christian 
country  in  Southeastern  Europe  is  making  a  like  ef- 
fort. I  think  we  can  say  that  Bulgaria  is  more  pro- 
gressive than  her  neighbors.  That  her  civilization  is 
higher  than  that_of  Roumania,  Servia,  and  Greece  — 


WIN  AND  THE  STRANGER  293 

where  they  make  no  serious  effort  to  give  schools  to 
the  women. 

"  I  don't  think  anything  about  Mohammedanism  at 
firsthand.  But  the  thing  which  makes  it  hardest  for 
me  to  be  sympathetic  is  what  I  hear  about  your  treat- 
ment of  women." 

"  God  never  created  anything,"  Lane  said  with  a 
smile,  "  which  is  harder  to  treat  wisely  and  well  than 
a  woman." 

Even  more  than  that  night  when  he  had  sat  with 
them  in  the  cafe,  Lane  was  reluctant  to  be  alone.  He 
welcomed  a  subject  of  discussion,  which  is  —  and  al- 
ways has  bejen  —  interminable. 

"  It  is  fairly  easy  to  be  decent  to  men.  It  is  not 
difficult  to  be  kind  to  animals.  But  it  is  hard  to 
know  how  to  treat  women.  Solomon  is  reported  to 
have  said  that  *  the  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid '  is 
past  all  finding  out.  Certainly  we,  in  the  East,  can- 
not pretend  to  have  solved  the  problem. 

"  But  if  you  want  to  try  a  comparison  on  this 
point,  you  must  remember  first  of  all  that  there  is 
hardly  a  book  in  your  language,  describing  the  life 
of  our  women,  which  was  not  written  by  a  Christian 
missionary.  And  I  have  never  seen  in  any  book  by  a 
missionary  a  description  of  one  of  our  happy  homes. 

"  It  is  rather  their  business  to  show  up  our  dark 
places,  to  exhibit  our  sores.  Even  if  they  try  to  write 
in  good  faith  —  as  some  of  them  do  —  it  is  hard  for 
them.  They  do  not  come  to  us  to  learn  about  our 
life,  but  to  change  it. 

"It  would  be  very  easy  for  me  to  write  a  book  in 


294  THE  STRANGER 

Arabic  about  New  York  women,  every  word  of  which 
would  be  true,  which  would  give  my  people  a  very 
false  picture.  I  would  not  have  to  write  it.  I  could 
translate  it  —  one  of  your  official  reports  on  the 
White  Slave  Trade,  or  Mr.  Kaufman's  novel  — '  The 
House  of  Bondage.'  But  that  would  not  seem  honor- 
able to  me.  If  I  wrote  about  American  women  at  all, 
I  would  try  to  give  a  picture  of  your  best  women. 
Your  missionaries  have  not  written  about  us  in  that 
spirit. 

"  Take,  for  instance,  the  translations  of  our  Koran. 
They  are  horrible !     First  of  all,  the  Koran  is  poetry 

—  we  think  it  the  most  beautiful  in  our  language. 
The  translations  are  very  bad  prose.  Whenever  there 
is  a  doubtful  meaning  the  Christian  translators  have 
not  given  us  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  They  are  not 
supposed  to  be  sympathetic  —  not  even  impartial. 
Think  what  a  hard  time  your  scholars  have  had 
rendering  the  Bible  into  English.  Even  with  the 
very  best  will  in  the  world  they  have  found  it  im- 
possible to  keep  some  of  it  from  sounding  ridiculous. 

"A  few  years  ago  I  read  in  a  French  book  that 
the  Shah  of  Persia  had  a  thousand  wives.  At  that 
time  he  was  just  twelve  years  old.  It  does  not  take 
much  thought  to  realize  that  *  wives'  is  hardly  the 
word  to  describe  the  horde  of  women  who  wait  on 
that  baby  prince.  In  the  East  it  is  an  immemorial 
custom  for  the  various  provinces  and  tribes  to  send 
one  of  their  daughters  to  the  ruler's  household  —  as  a 
tribute,  a  sign  of  loyalty.     Some  find  favor  in  his  eyes 

—  most  of  them  he  never  sees.  The  translators  of 
your  Bible  made  this  grotesque  mistake  when  they 


WIN  AND  THE  STRANGER  295 

credited  Solomon  with  a  thousand  wives.  Caesar 
Borgia  or  Henri  Quatre  or  men  like  that,  who  have 
gone  in  for  that  sort  of  thing,  might  have  had  pass- 
ing amours  with  a  thousand  women.  But  Solomon  is 
reported  to  have  been  wise. 

"  It  is  always  difficult  to  interpret  one  civiliza- 
tion to  another,  to  translate  its  books,  and  explain 
its  customs.  Most  of  the  books  about  us  have  been 
by  people  who  through  ignorance  could  not  be  fair  — 
or  for  more  sordid  motives  did  not  want  to  be.  And 
of  all  our  life,  the  condition  of  our  women  has  been 
most  grossly  and  willfully  misrepresented. 

"  How  shall  I  say  it  —  and  still  be  polite?    I " 

"  Don't  worry  about  politeness/'  Win  laughed.  "  I 
want  to  know  what  you  really  think." 

"  Well,  I  do  not  think  our  women  would  want  to 
change  places  with  yours.  You  would  be  quite  wrong, 
if  you  pictured  our  women  locked  up  in  their  harems, 
pining  to  be  like  Christian  women.  They  would  be 
quite  sincerely  shocked  at  what  would  seem  to  them 
the  gross  immorality  of  your  mode  of  life.  They 
would  think  —  but  nothing  is  gained  by  calling 
names.  We  are  only  tempted  to,  when  we  hear  the 
libels  you  are  told  about  our  Prophet. 

"  All  through  his  young  manhood  Mohammed  loved 
one  woman,  who  was  much  older  than  he  —  Khadijah. 
It  is  at  very  beautiful  love  story.  As  boys  we  are 
taught  extracts  from  the  biographies,  as  in  your 
schools  you  learn  stories  about  Washington  and  Lin- 
coln and  chapters  from  your  Bible.  I  can  still  re- 
member long  passages  from  Ben  Ishak.  Khadijah 
was  richer  than  the  Prophet  and  she  asked  him  to 


296  THE  STRANGER 

marry  her.  *  I  love  thee,  my  cousin/  she  said,  '  for 
the  respect  with  which  thy  people  regard  thee,  for  thy 
honesty,  for  the  beauty  of  thy  character,  and  for  the 
truthfulness  of  thy  speech.'  She  was  the  first  convert 
to  Islam.  '  So  Khadijah  believed,'  Ben  Ishak  tells  us, 
*  and  bore  witness  to  the  truth  of  that  which  came  to 

him  from  God  and  aided  him So  was  the  Lord 

minded  to  lighten  the  burden  of  His  Prophet. 
Whenever  he  heard  anything  which  grieved  him  con- 
cerning his  rejection  by  men,  he  would  return  to  her, 
and  God  would  comfort  him  through  her,  for  she  re- 
assured him  —  and  declared  her  trust  in  him  and 
made  it  easy  for  him  to  bear  the  scorn  of  the  people.' 
We  are  fond  of  love  stories  in  the  East  and  none  is 
more  popular,  none  is  more  often  repeated,  than  this 
of  Mohammed  and  Khadijah.  From  childhood  up  we 
are  taught  to  model  our  lives  on  his. 

"  I  do  not  think  we  have  to  be  ashamed  of  our  ideals 
in  this  matter;  of  some  of  our  practices  —  yes.  Of 
course  there  is  abuse  —  especially  among  the  rich, 
worldly  city  dwellers.  Just  as  yon  have  a  tradition 
that  Paris  is  a  very  wicked  city,  so  with  us  Stam- 
boul  —  Constantinople  —  is  supposed  to  be  unusually 
vicious.  But  I  think  it  is  really  the  hostility  of 
nomadic  and  agricultural  people  to  the  town  dweller. 
I  have  never  visited  any  city  where  the  standard  of 
morality  was  as  healthy  as  on  the  countryside.  Cities 
need  special  laws.  They  are  so  new  —  and  all  our 
laws  and  customs  grew  up,  in  the  open. 

"  You  do  not  enjoy  that  book  of  Mr.  Kaufman's,  to 
which    I    referred.     There    are    equally    unpleasant 


WIN  AND  THE  STRANGER  297 

stories    with    us.     The    missionaries    have    made    a 
specialty  of  reporting  such  unpleasant  things. 

"An  amusing  but  illuminating  phase  of  the  ques- 
tion is  that  we  have  even  more  funny  stories  than 
you  about  henpecked  husbands. 

"  The  worst  side  of  our  life  is  the  ignorance  of  our 
women.  They  are  good  wives  and  excellent  mothers. 
I  think  they  are  more  competent  in  these  rdles  than 
most  of  your  women.  But  few  of  them  have  any 
other  wisdom.  The  ancient  men  who  formed  our  cus- 
toms —  Mohammed  only  regulated  and  purified  exist- 
ing customs  —  were  so  anxious  not  to  have  their  war- 
fare, their  business,  their  study,  and  contemplation 
disturbed  and  thwarted  by  the  intrusion  of  sex  — 
they  were  more  austere  in  such  matters  than  your 
Puritans  —  that  they  excluded  women  from  all  the 
parts  of  life  they  considered  most  important.  As  a 
result  our  women  are  dolefully  ignorant  of  such 
things. 

"Certainly  the  education  which  Western  children 
get  in  their  nurseries  —  from  their  mothers  —  is  very 
valuable.  Of  course  you  do  not  trust  your  women 
to  educate  your  boys  after  they  get  beyond  the  early 
teens.  ,  But  our  Muslim  women  are  too  ignorant  to 
teach  much  even  to  little  children.  It  is  a  great  mis- 
fortune—  of  which  some  day,  I  hope,  we  will  be 
ashamed.  But  if  we  ever  turn  our  women  out  of  the 
shelter  of  the  harem  it  will  not  be  in  order  to  give 
them  a  higher  morality  —  but  to  give  them  a  higher 
intelligence. 

"And  if  I  understand  at  all  what  vqu  mean  by 


298  THE  STRANGER 

feminism  —  you  also  are  dissatisfied  with  the  condi- 
tion of  your  women." 

"  Yes,"  Win  admitted.  "  We,  also,  have  found 
women  hard  things  to  treat  well  —  and  sanely." 

"  It  is  your  women  most  of  all  I  find  hard  to  under- 
stand," Lane  went  on  — "  your  friends,  for  instance. 
As  I  said  the  other  night,  they  have  so  much  to  make 
them  happy.  But  do  you,  who  know  them  well  —  do 
you  think  they  are?  Perhaps  you  have  a  different 
theory,  but  we  believe  that  God  made  men  and  women 
to  be  a  comfort  to  each  other.  Why  are  so  many  of 
your  friends  unmarried?  Take  Miss  Cash.  I  had 
dinner  with  her  to-night.     Is " 

"Did  you?"  Win  interrupted  with  interest. 
"  How  did  it  go?  " 

*  We  had  a  long  talk." 

"  Good !  I  hope  you'll  get  really  acquainted  with 
her.  She's  a  wonderful  woman  —  worth  knowing 
well.  She's  significant.  She's  the  kind  we  people, 
who  are  feminists,  are  aiming  at.  Women  who  de- 
velop their  abilities  and  take  a  worthy  place  in  the 
work  of  the  world.  You  say  it's  hard  to  treat  women 
well  —  and  it  is,  so  long  as  we  men  do  the  treating 
—  so  long  as  we  feel  that  we  have  to  decide  things 
for  them,  that  it's  up  to  us  to  make  something  of  them. 
Let  them  shoulder  their  own  responsibilities,  I  say. 
Let  them  treat  themselves.  We  men  should  sit  back 
for  a  while  and  let  them  run  their  own  lives. 

"  You  ask  if  our  women  are  happy.  I  don't  think 
that  is  the  standard.  There  are  many  things  more 
important  than  happiness.  You  don't  expect  pioneers 
to  be  comfortable.     If  they  go  out  beyond  the  frontier 


WIN  AND  THE  STRANGER  299 

and  chop  down  trees  and  make  a  path  for  civilization, 
we  do  not  quarrel  with  them  because  they  are  not  so 
comfortable  as  the  people  who  stay  at  home  within 
reach  of  porcelain  bathtubs ! 

"  Well,  why  insist  that  such  women  should  be 
happy?  They're  pioneers,  too,  Helen  and  Irene  Pen- 
ton  and  Eunice  Bender  and  the  host  of  other  women 
in  this  town  who  are  earning  their  own  living.  When 
women  go  out  after  their  economic  independence  — 
refuse  the  easy  life  of  getting  some  man  to  support 
them  —  they  are  bucking  against  all  the  conservative 
traditions  of  the  race,  they  are  flying  in  the  face  of 
everybody  who  hates  a  change  —  they're  sure  to  be 
uncomfortable,  the  chances  are  they'll  be  unhappy. 

"  But  when  they  win  in  the  fight,  they  gain  more 
than  their  own  individual  independence  —  they've 
made  it  easier  for  other  women.  Almost  all  the 
older  women  I  know  who  fought  for  and  won  their 
independence  were  personally  unhappy  —  lonely,  bar- 
ren, scarred  lives.  But  this  younger  generation  of 
insurgent  women  is  having  an  easier  time  of  it.  Here 
and  there  some  of  them  are  managing  to  be  happy  as 
well  as  independent.  For  the  next  generation  it 
will  be  easier  still. 

"  And  when  all  the  women  are  independent,  the  sum 
total  of  happiness  for  them,  for  us  men,  for  the 
children  will  be  immensely  increased  —  and  not  only 
happiness,  which  seems  to  me  a  rather  low  standard 
—  but  life  will  mean  more,  be  more  worth  while, 
will  have  infinitely  more  possibilities  of  fineness,  in 
all  its  phases  and  implications. 

"  That's  the  heroic,  the  admirable  part  of  such 


300  THE  STRANGER 

women  as  Helen.  It's  very  much  more  than  just  a 
self -centered  personal  freedom,  or  personal  happiness, 
that  they're  fighting  for.  They  are  determined  to 
make  it  easier  for  all  women  to  be  free  and  happy. 
They  go  into  the  fight  and  laugh  at  the  risk  —  know- 
ing that  the  chances  are  against  them.  For  the 
greater  goal  in  view,  they  are  willing  to  lose  their 
personal  happiness.  I'm  more  interested  in,  more 
inspired  by,  this  feminist  movement  than  by  anything 
else.  It  is  rich  in  present  nobility  and  full  of  won- 
derful promise. 

"  You  see  us  —  and  these  women  —  in  a  period  of 
transition.  Perhaps  we  look  grotesque.  But  you 
can't  expect  people  who  are  in  the  midst  of  a  fight 
to  possess  the  things  they  are  fighting  for.  You 
don't  ask  Lancaster  if  his  activity  for  Socialism  has 
made  him  rich  —  it's  the  commonwealth  he's  strug- 
gling for.  So  why  condemn  these  women  fighters 
because  they  are  not  idyllically  happy?  It's  the  com- 
mon happiness  they're  after. 

"  Respectable  people  say  that  the  Suffragettes  are 
coarse  and  vulgar  and  unwomanly.  They  did  not  go 
into  the  fight  to  acquire  refinement  and  sweet  graces. 
It  doesn't  matter  if  the  heat  of  the  struggle  flushes 
their  faces  to  unloveliness,  it  doesn't  matter  if  now 
and  then  they  lose  their  tempers  and  smash  windows, 
it  doesn't  matter  if  they  sometimes  become  peevish  and 
virulent.  It's  a  waste  of  time  for  them  to  deny  such 
charges  —  and  rather  undignified.  Nothing  that 
happens  to  these  individual  fighters  matters,  so  long 
as  the  fight  goes  on  to  victory.  There  are  sure  to  be 
wounds  in  any  warfare. 


WIN  AND  THE  STRANGER  301 

"  These  women,  even  the  most  crabbed  and  unpleas- 
ant of  them,  are  fighting,  risking  their  personal  peace 
and  happiness,  in  the  determination  that  it  shall  be 
easier  for  all  women  to  be  gracious  and  joyous,  to 
love  finely,  to  bear  wholesome,  noble  children,  to  be 
just  and  calm  and  sweet-tempered  toward  men  —  so 
we  won't  have  to  worry  over  the  problem  of  how  to 
treat  them.  And  if  they  win  —  as  they  surely  are 
winning  —  what  does  it  matter  if  some  of  them,  in  the 
turmoil  of  the  fight,  have  been  just  the  opposite  of 
what  they  were  fighting  for? 

"  It  is  always  easy  to  poke  scorn  at  earnest  people. 
Graciousness  and  the  old  ideals  of  beauty  all  implied 
peace  and  relaxation.  They  —  these  friends  of  mine 
—  are  too  desperately  in  earnest  to  care  if  their  hair 
is  brushed.  I  can  understand  how  to  you,  a  stranger, 
they  may  seem  unlovely,  discontented,  unhappy. 
They  are.  But  nevertheless  —  and  because  —  they 
are  the  hope  of  the  world. 

"  If  you  want  to  understand  us,  study  these  move- 
ments of  revolt  —  Socialism  and  Feminism.  They  are 
the  significant  facts  of  our  life.  They  stand  —  not 
for  the  petty,  sordid,  unpleasant  things  America 
is  to-day  —  but  for  the  things  we  are  determined 
America  shall  be.  Get  acquainted  with  Helen.  She's 
the  type  of  what  we'd  all  like  to  be.  She's  our  stand- 
ard bearer.    We're  all  in  love  with  her." 

"Are  you?" 

"  Yes,"  Win  laughed.  "  There's  no  reason  for  me 
to  hide  it.     In  fact  I'm  rather  proud  of  it." 

"  Well,"  Lane  hesitated  and  then  plunged  into  his 
question.     "  Why  don't  you  marry  her?  " 


302  THE  STRANGER 

Win  laughed  again,  but  withal  more  seriously. 

"  In  this  country  I  can't  buy  her  from  her  father. 
Her  consent  is  necessary." 

"  Really,  I  do  not  want  to  be  inquisitive,"  Lane  said, 
rebuffed  by  Win's  jest,  but  very  deeply  anxious  to  get 
at  the  heart  of  this  Western  attitude  towards  mating, 
"  but  I  do  want  to  understand  you  people  and  so  much 
depends  on  this  sort  of  thing.  Why  does  not  she 
give  her  consent?  Is  she  afraid  of  happiness?  Would 
she  rather  be  childless  and  alone?  Is  she  afraid  of 
happiness?  " 

"  That's  hardly  the  question,"  Win  replied,  quite 
seriously.  "  Isn't  it,  rather,  whether  I  could  give  her 
happiness?" 

"  Our  poets  have  always  said  that  love  is  happi- 
ness." 

"  I  could  give  her  a  great  deal  of  that." 

"  That's  just  the  point.  Why  doesn't  she  accept 
it?     Is  she  hoping  for  some  better  thing?  " 

Win  waved  his  hands  in  an  uncertain  gesture. 

For  a  moment  they  sat  there  smoking  in  silence, — 
each  thinking  of  the  Beloved,  so  different  in  charac- 
ter—  each  thinking  so  differently  of  love.  Their 
meditations  were  interrupted  by  the  telephone  bell. 
Pete  had  come  down  from  Albany,  and  was  having  a 
late  supper  at  the  Santa  Fe.     He  wanted  company. 

Win  said  he  had  some  work  to  do,  and  Lane  went 
over  to  the  caf6  to  join  Pete.  They  discussed  all 
manner  of  things  till  closing  time.  In  the  hallway 
before  their  doors,  just  as  they  were  saying  good 
night,  Lane  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  to  get  his  key 


WIN  AND  THE  STRANGER  303 

and  felt  the  money  Win  had  given  him  earlier  in  the 
evening. 

"  Oh,  McGee,"  he  said,  "  it  is  one  of  your  cus- 
toms I  wanted  to  ask  about.  On  Christmas  Day,  if 
you  give  a  person  a  present,  is  it  expected  that  he 
will  pay  you  back  the  cost?  " 

"  Why,  no ;  where  did  you  get  that  idea?  You  never 
pay  a  person  for  a  Christmas  gift.  But  generally  it's 
an  exchange.  I  give  my  girl  a  box  of  candy  and  she 
gives  me  a  necktie.  I  suppose  in  the  end  the  costs 
about  balance.  But  a  person  would  be  offended  if 
you  offered  to  pay  money  for  a  Christmas  present  — 
if  that's  what  you  mean.     Why  do  you  ask?  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  just  trying  to  understand.    Good  night." 

"  Good  night." 

In  his  room,  Lane  saw  on  his  desk  the  verses  he 
had  started  to  translate.  He  set  to  work  on  them 
again  and  for  an  hour  or  more  struggled  over  the 
problem  of  how  to  render  into  English  the  intricate 
rhythm  and  interlaced  rhyme  of  the  Arabic  original. 
This  he  decided  at  last  he  could  not  do.  "It  is  a 
poem,"  he  wrote,  "  about  that  proverb  I  quoted  to  you 
this  morning.  I  have  only  tried  to  give  the  thought. 
I  do  not  know  English  well  enough  to  translate  the 
form." 

He  went  out  to  post  the  envelope  containing  the 
verses  and  his  little  note,  so  that  she  would  get  them 
with  the  morning  mail.  In  spite  of  the  bitter  cold, 
he  walked  on  and  on,  the  night  through. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

PARTING 

What  seemed  bitterest  to  Helen,  as  she  sat  alone 
in  her  office,  after  the  Armenian  dinner  with  Lane, 
was  the  fact  that  she  had  sinned  against  Eunice. 
Loyalty  was  the  virtue  which  she  ranked  above  all 
others. 

She  had  presumed  to  think  it  her  duty  to  warn 
Lane  of  Eunice's  condition.  She  ought  never  to  have 
doubted  that  Eunice  herself  would  have  told  him. 
Somehow  this  fact  stood  towering  above  the  ruin 
which  filled  her  heart.  It  had  been  underhand  for 
her  to  come  to  him  without  first  consulting  Eunice. 
She  had  been  disloyal  to  her  dearest  friend.  She  saw 
this  act  of  hers  with  horrifying  clearness.  In  her 
abasement  she  told  herself  that  those  cynics  are  right 
who  say  that  always  in  a  crisis  women  are  selfish  and 
unreliable.  Had  it  been  jealousy  —  crude,  vulgar 
jealousy,  an  unscrupulous  will  to  defeat  a  rival  — 
which  had  led  her  to  intervene? 

The  destruction  which  follows  pride,  the  fall  which 
trips  the  haughty  spirit,  is  a  tragic  thing.  Outside, 
the  roar  of  the  city  gradually  died  down  to  its  night- 
time rumble.  One  after  another,  people  who  had 
been  working  late  in  neighboring  offices  turned  off 
their  light  and  went  gladly  home  from  their  labor. 

304 


PARTING  305 

Helen,  who  had  sinned  in  pride  and  haughtiness,  sat 
there  alone  in  her  dark  office,  her  heart  broken  and 
contrite. 

In  the  welter  of  her  distress,  she  hardly  thought  of 
her  own  still-born  dream.  Her  relation  to  Eunice 
seemed  very  much  more  important.  She  had  been  dis- 
loyal. That  seemed  more  momentous  to  her  than  any 
distress  or  heartbreak  of  her  own.  Only  one  thing 
could  she  see  clearly.  She  must  make  amends  to 
Eunice.  From  now  on  she  would  be  loyal.  But  the 
despair  of  the  situation  was  that  she  had  no  idea  of 
what  was  the  thing  to  do. 

Eunice  heard  Helen's  latchkey,  when  at  last  she 
came  home.  She  had  been  waiting  for  her.  She 
jumped  up  and  held  out  her  hands  in  pleading  appeal. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  come.     I  wanted  to  talk." 

"  Oh,  Eunice,  dear,  are  you  having  another  bad 
night?  " 

"  No.  Oh,  no !  But  I  had  to  see  you.  There  is 
something  you  must  do  for  me.  See  him.  Have  a 
long  talk  with  him.  Tell  him  everything  —  how  im- 
-ible  it  is.     He  won't  listen  to  me." 

If  there  had  been  a  Judas  tree  at  hand,  Helen  would 
have  hanged  herself. 

"  I  have  seen  him  —  had  dinner  with  him.  Of 
course,  I  ought  to  have  waited  till  you  asked  me  to. 
But  —  well  —  I  didn't  understand.  I  didn't  stop  to 
think." 

u  You  always  do  the  right  thing,  Nell.  But  — 
what  did  he  say?" 

"  He  didn't  say  anything  —  except  that  you'd  al- 
ready told  him.     Oh,  yes,  he  said  he  must  love  you 


306  THE  STRANGER 

even  more  than  if  you  were  entirely  well.  He  was 
quite  wonderful  about  it." 

A  quality  in  the  sadness  of  Eunice's  face  dropped 
out,  never  to  appear  again.  She  had  been  haunted 
by  the  fear  that  it  was  all  a  mistake.  She  had  needed 
some  outside,  or  third  party,  assurance.  One  glory 
or  life,  at  least,  her  sick  body  had  not  denied  her. 
Knowing  the  worst,  he  still  loved  her. 

"  It  is  so  wonderful,"  she  said,  "  happening  to 
me!" 

Helen  had  always  thought  of  Eunice  as  pretty. 
Now,  for  the  first  time,  she  saw  her  beauty.  Her 
hair  was  down  in  two  great  braids  and  the  soft  eider- 
down chamber  robe  hung  about  her  like  the  vestments 
of  a  mediaeval  Madonna.  Her  face  shone  with  a 
strange  light  —  illumined  by  the  radiance  of  a  joy 
Helen  had  never  known. 

A  great  awe  fell  on  her.  She  was  no  longer  sur- 
prised that  Lane  had  preferred  Eunice.  The  scales 
fell  from  her  eyes  and  she  caught  a  momentary  vision 
of  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  —  a  vision  of  new 
values.  All  her  self-complacency,  all  her  confident 
assurance,  was  stripped  from  her.  Her  soul  shivered 
in  its  nakedness. 

It  was  a  strange  comfort  for  her  to  hold  tightly  to 
Eunice.  She  felt  herself  the  weak  one  of  the  two. 
It  was  she  who  needed  shelter  and  protection. 

"Tell  me,  Nell,  what  ought  I  to  do  —  for  him? 
It's  such  a  priceless  thing  he  has  done  for  me." 

Of  course,  Helen  could  not  answer. 

"  Tell  me,"  Eunice  urged.  "  You  always  know 
what  you  ought  to  do." 


PARTING  307 

"Not  now.  I'm  all  at  sea.  I  don't  know  what 
you  ought  to  do." 

She  made  a  great  effort  to  regain  her  poise,  to  be 
reasonable. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  ought  to  do,  Eunice.  I'm 
lost  in  this.  At  first  it  seemed  to  me  all  wrong. 
And  now  it  seems  to  me  —  well  —  only  as  if  it  ought 
to  be  wrong." 

"  Of  course,  it's  wrong,"  Eunice  said  wearily.  "  I 
know  that.     But  that  doesn't  help." 

But  somehow  it  did  help. 

"  Good  night,"  she  said,  "  I  must  write  to  him.  I 
couldn't  until  you  had  told  him." 

While  love  is  always  wondrous,  it  is  by  no  means 
always  joyous.  It  was  poignant  pain  to  these  two. 
In  the  egoism  of  her  own  immense  experience  Eunice 
had  no  eyes  to  look  closely  at  her  friend,  to  suspect 
even  vaguely  the  slough  of  misery  into  which  she  had 
plunged. 

"Thank  your  gods,  Helen,  dear,"  she  said,  "that 
you  never  get  into  such  piteous  tangles.  It  would  be 
so  gloriously  simple,  if  I  were  only  well.  Good 
night." 

In  her  impatience  to  commune  with  him,  her  good 
nip-ht  kiss  to  Helen  was  scant  indeed. 

"  Beloved,"  she  wrote,  "  sit  very  still  with  me  a  little  while 
and  let  me  talk  to  you.  It's  late  at  night  now.  I've  been  think- 
ing, ever  since  you  left,  about  you  —  about  us  —  and  nothing  else. 
First  of  all  and  most  of  all,  I've  been  praying  to  all  my  gods, 
to  everything  I  ever  worshiped,  asking  to  be  taught  some  mar- 
velous way  to  tell  you  how  utterly  I  thank  you  for  loving  me. 
I'd  rather  tell  you  that  even  than  how  very,  very  much  I  love 
you. 


308  THE  STKANGER 

"You  said  that  Love  was  the  Door  into  the  Paradise  of  God. 
Dear  One,  you  have  opened  it  for  me  and  have  led  me  into  the 
Garden.  Always,  always,  I  have  dreamed  of  it  —  but  I  never, 
never  expected  to  enter  it. 

"  You  see,  I've  always  been  sick.  It  could  not  seem  so  mar- 
velous to  a  girl  who  was  strong,  who  had  always  expected,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  that  some  day  she  would  meet  Love.  Although 
I've  often  watched  people  who  were  in  love  and  have  read  books 
and  poems  about  it  and  have  wondered  what  it  would  be  like, 
I've  never  dared  to  dream  that  it  would  come  to  me.  And  so  I 
am  all  breathless  and  amazed  by  the  Beauty  of  the  Garden. 

"  People  have  always  been  kind  to  me.  I  can  hardly  remember 
any  unkindness.  All  the  dear  friends  here  in  New  York  —  I'm 
glad  to  think  that  they  are  your  friends,  too,  now.  And  above 
all,  Helen.  Dear  Heart,  you  do  not  like  her  very  well.  It's 
because  you  do  not  know  her  —  the  real  person.  I  could  never 
tell  you  how  fine  she  is  —  nor  how  very,  very  much  she  has 
done  for  me.     You  must  try  to  like  her  —  for  my  sake. 

"  And  people  have  pitied  me.  So  many  fine,  kind  people  pity 
me.  I  like  their  kindness,  but  their  pity  is  hard  to  bear.  And 
I  thought  that  was  all  Life  could  give  me  —  Kindness  and  Pity. 

"I  don't  suppose  any  one  ever  pitied  you.  So  even  you,  who 
are  so  much  more  understanding  than  the  rest,  can't  quite  under- 
stand. 

"  Perhaps  you,  too,  pity  me.  I  don't  think  so.  I've  never 
been  conscious  of  it.  That's  one  of  the  very  biggest  reasons 
why  I  love  you.  No,  even  you  cannot  understand  what  it  means 
to  me  —  who  have  always  been  pitied  —  to  be  loved.  It's  much 
too  wonderful  for  me  to  tell  —  even  to  you. 

"No  matter  what  happens,  Dearest  One,  you  must  never, 
never  for  the  tiniest  minute  doubt  that  I  do  love  you  —  with  all 
my  heart  —  all  —  all  of  me.  Just  because  it  is  so  unexpected, 
so  unhoped  for,  I  am  sure  that  I  love  you  more  than  any  one 
else  could. 

"  It  almost  makes  me  glad  of  my  ill  health.  I  could  not  love 
you  so  utterly  if  I'd  been  well. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  very  selfish  —  this  heart  of  mine,  which  is 


PARTING  309 

now  all  yours.  It's  so  unused  to  Love.  We  accept  your  Gift 
of  Love  —  my  heart  and  I  —  wondrous  gift  —  oh,  so  joyously. 
But  we're  dazzled  by  it.  And  it's  hard  for  us  to  be  sensible 
about  it  —  very,  very  hard. 

"  But,  Beloved,  in  this  Glorious  Garden  of  Love,  we  must 
not  let  selfishness  enter.  According  to  the  old,  old  story,  it  was 
Eve  who  let  the  serpent  in.  It  was  her  un worthiness,  so  the 
story  goes,  that  drove  us  all  out  of  the  Garden  into  this  world 
of  misery  and  sin  and  sickness.  So,  above  everything  else,  it 
seems  important  to  me  to  be  very  sure  that  nothing  I  do  shall 
drive  us  out. 

"  I  know  it  would  be  utterly  wrong  for  me  to  let  you  spoil 
your  life,  just  to  feed  this  amazing  new  joyousness  in  my  heart. 
You  have  a  right " 

But  she  scratched  out  this  sentence.  She  knew  it 
would  have  no  effect.  He  was  thinking  of  his  desires, 
not  his  rights.  It  was  useless  to  develop  this  idea. 
She  cast  about  wistfully  in  her  mind  for  an  argument 
which  would  have  weight  with  him.  It  was  several 
minutes  before  she  found  her  cue  and  began  to  write 
again. 

"  There  is  another  thing,  Beloved,  that  I  am  sure  no  one  in 
all  the  world  but  you  could  understand.  If  I  went  with  you  to 
your  beautiful  country " 

She  broke  off,  tore  this  up,  and  began  again : 

"While  I  was  thinking  of  us  this  afternoon,  perhaps  I  fell 
asleep,  anyhow  I  dreamed  —  of  the  flat  roof  of  your  house  and 
the  moon  you  love  so  much  shining  on  the  snow  crests  of  your 
dear  mountains.  And,  Beloved,  your  head  was  in  my  lap  and 
I  was  stroking  your  hair  —  your  heart  will  tell  you  how  happy 
we  were.  But,  if  I  came  with  you,  it  would  not  be  like  this 
dream.  I  would  be  sick.  And  you  would  be  distressed  because  I 
was  far  from  my  doctor.    Worry  like  that  would  spoil  the  dream. 


310  THE  STRANGER 

"  Even  if  you  stayed  with  me  here  in  New  York,  Beloved,  it 
would  be  the  same.  You  would  see  how  sick  I  am  —  the 
ghastly  ugliness  of  it  —  and  pity  me!     And  —  oh,  my  Beloved 

—  I  cannot  bear  even  the  thought  of  that ! 

"  You  cannot  understand  all  this  means  to  me.  But  I  hope 
you  will  try  to  understand  —  a  little. 

"  Of  course,  if  I  were  strong,  I'd  come  with  you.  There 
wouldn't  be  any  question  —  not*  the  tiniest  hesitation.  How 
p could  I  be  happier  than  with  your  dear  arms  about  me?     But 

—  please  try  to  understand  —  when  I'm  sick,  I'm  glad  you 
cannot  see  me.  It  doesn't  matter  so  much  to  be  pitied  by 
strangers,  the  doctor,  a  hired  nurse  —  or  by  friends,  like  Helen 

—  but,  oh!  it  would  spoil  Love. 

"Yes,  I  think  you'll  understand.  You  see,  I've  been  pitied 
so  much  —  always.  I've  never  been  loved  but  this  once.  And 
I  want  to  keep  this  Love  pure  from  any  taint.  Pity  would  kill 
it. 

"  So,  Beloved,  you  must  go  away.  No  matter  where  our 
bodies  are,  even  if  we  never  see  each  other  again,  our  spirits 
will  be  together,  walking,  so  close  together,  in  God's  Garden  of 
Love. 

u  You  will  leave  me  here  to  live  the  time  that  is  left  me  —  it 
will  not  be  very  long.  I  am  quite  sure  it  will  not  be  very  long. 
Now  that  you  have  come  to  me;  now  that  you  have  taught  me 
the  story  of  how  Love  and  the  Lover  and  the  Beloved  are  One, 
there  isn't  any  more  reason  why  I  should  live  longer.  Always 
the  wonder  and  the  glory  of  your  Love  will  be  about  me  like  a 
garment  —  like  an  intimate  kiss.  I  am  not  afraid  to  go  from 
our  Garden  to  the  Greater  Garden.  And  I  will  be  waiting  for 
you  there,  very  close  to  the  Gate. 

"Beloved,  you  will  not  argue  with  me  about  this.  Perhaps 
it  won't  seem  right  to  you.  But  even  if  you  don't  quite  under- 
stand, I  know  you  will  take  my  word  for  it.  You  have  taught 
me  so  much  about  Love  —  but  Love  itself  has  taught  me  this. 
I  am  quite  sure  I  am  right.  Nothing  else  matters,  since  your 
Merciful  God  has  shown  us  His  Garden.     No,  the  rest,  what 


PARTING  311 

happens  to  our  bodies,  does  not  matter  any  more.  And  you 
will  let  me  have  my  way. 

"  It  is  all  so  precious  to  me.     I  don't  dare  to  risk  spoiling  it. 

"When  you  get  this  letter  —  it  is  all  my  heart  open  to  your 
eyes,  the  eyes  I  love  so  much  —  you  will  try  to  understand. 
You  will  make  this  sacrifice  for  me. 

"  But  you  will  come  once  more  to  say  good-by.  You  will  kiss 
my  two  hands,  as  you  did  —  when  was  it,  dear?  It  seems  at 
once  so  very  long  ago  and  so  very  much  just  now.  And  once 
—  I  will  kiss  you. 

"  Then,  Beloved,  you  will  not  make  it  hard  for  me  by  arguing. 
You  will  remember  how  weak  I  am,  how  I  have  just  come  into 
the  Garden  and  have  not  yet  had  time  to  learn  its  ways  —  have 
not  had  time  to  shake  off  the  dust  of  the  Outside. 

"  You  will  not  make  it  hard  for  me.  You  will  let  me  kiss 
you  once  more  and  then,  Beloved,  you  will  go  —  even  if  I  cry 
to  have  you  stay.  ; 

"  Yes,  it  is  very  hard  to  write  it.  It  will  be  harder  to-mor- 
row to  have  you  go;  but  it  is  best.  We  must  keep  ourselves 
worthy  —  we  must  not  soil  this  Gift  of  God. 

"  But  first,  before  you  go  —  you  will  come  to  me  —  that  I 
may  kiss  you." 

The  nine  o'clock  morning  mail  brought  to  Eunice 
Lane's  verses.  On  the  same  round  the  postman  deliv- 
ered her  letter  to  him. 

Ali  Zaky  Bey,  that  progressive  and  enlightened 
Oriental  who  approved  of  our  Western  civilization, 
was  snoring  off  the  effect  of  a  Christian  debauch  when 
the  letters  were  brought  up  to  their  apartments. 

Eunice  had  seen  clairvoyantly  into  the  heart  of 
her  lover.  She  had  found  the  one  argument  he  could 
not  dispute.  She  asked  him  to  go,  in  order  that  Love 
might  be  preserved  unsullied.  To  this  he  could  find 
no  reply. 


312  THE  STRANGER 

Of  course  he  did  not  follow  her  reasoning.  As 
he  did  not  worship  health,  he  could  not  understand 
her  shame  of  disease,  nor  her  dread  of  having  him 
become  intimate  with  her  sickness. 

The  Oriental,  in  a  manner  which  often  seems  cruel 
to  us,  is  contemptuous  toward  many  forms  of  weak- 
ness. *"  He  can  sympathize  deeply  with  the  pain  of 
others.  His  literature  is  full  of  tragedy,  much  of  his 
music  is  minor.  But  he  does  not  understand  what  we 
call  "  pity." 

There  was  more  of  a  slur  in  Lane's  admiration  of 
Helen's  strength  than  in  his  sympathy  with  Eunice's 
weakness.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  feel,  in 
any  slighting  way,  sorry  for  her. 

But  he  could  share  her  dread  of  anything  which 
might  lessen  Love.  She  said  his  continued  presence 
would.     It  was  not  to  be  argued. 

It  was  a  strange  attitude  of  mind  which  he  must 
ponder  over,  think  out  at  leisure.  Now  she  was  wait- 
ing for  him.  It  was  only  a  few  minutes  across  the 
Square  to  her  door.  "  Mr.  Lane  to  see  Miss  Bender," 
he  told  the  negro  hallboy.  He  managed  to  keep  his 
tone  casual.  But  his  soul  raged  as  he  had  to  wait 
on  the  mechanics  of  our  civilization.  He  knew 
Eunice  was  expecting  him  —  why  wait  for  the  con- 
firmation of  the  telephone?  He  would  have  liked  to 
feel  every  muscle  taut  in  some  supreme  effort  to  reach 
her.  He  had  to  stand  passively  and  let  a  hydraulic 
elevator  carry  him  upstairs.  Then  he  had  to  press 
an  electric  bell  and  wait  for  Jenny  to  tell  him  once 
more  that  Eunice  was  there.  At  the  end  of  the  little 
hallway  she  was  standing  in  the  library  door,  holding 


PARTING  313 

aside  the  portieres.  At  last  there  were  no  more 
machines  between  them. 

She  stepped  back  at  his  approach  and,  as  the  cur- 
tains falling  into  place  hid  them  from  Jenny's  inquisi- 
tiveness,  she  held  out  her  hands  to  him  to  be  kissed. 
He  gathered  her  into  his  arms  and  led,  half  carried, 
her  across  the  room  to  the  couch. 

"  At  least/'  he  said,  "  I  may  stay  a  little  minute." 

He  sat  down  on  the  floor  at  her  feet,  his  head  rest- 
ing against  her  knee  and  of  one  of  her  hands  he  kept 
tight  hold.  With  the  other  she  gently  touched  his 
hair  and  neck  and  cheek.  And  all  the  air  about  them 
glowed. 

"  Your  verses,  Beloved,"  she  said,  "  are  very  beau- 
tiful." 

"  Beautiful?    Yes,  and  also  very  wise." 

"  I  will  always  keep  them  very  near  my  heart  — 
your  heart." 

He  pressed  his  face  into  her  hands. 

But  presently  he  turned  so  that  he  could  look  up 
into  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  her  cheeks  wet. 
But  it  was  her  pallor  which  stirred  him  most.  There 
was  a  movement  of  revolt  within  him.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  blood  of  his  Western  parents. 

"  Are  you  very  sure,"  he  asked  solemnly,  "  that  it 
will  be  greater  and  finer  if  I  go?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure."  She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked 
at  him  with  courageous  steadfastness.  "  It  is  for 
Love's  sake  —  for  our  sakes  —  that  I  ask  you  to  go." 

She  shuddered  slightly  and  then,  as  though  afraid 
of  losing  courage,  she  spoke  sharply : 

"  Now." 


314  THE  STRANGER 

But  she  was  the  braver  of  the  two  as  they  stood 
up. 

"  I  have  your  Gift  safe  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  Be- 
loved." 

Her  smile  was  so  full  of  silent,  certain  joy  that  it 
held  him  breathless.  A  great  light  shone  into  all 
obscure  places  for  him.  He  knew  that  she  was  right. 
And,  as  though  the  light  of  her  smile  were  reflected 
to  her  from  his  eyes,  it  illumined  the  Dark  Valley  for 
her.     She  was  not  any  more  afraid. 

She  put  her  hands  up  to  his  shoulders,  caressed 
him  once  more  with  her  smile  and  kissed  him. 

"  I  will  tell  God,"  she  said,  "  how  you  showed  me 
the  way." 

If  he  could  have  spoken  with  the  tongues  of  angels 
he  could  have  found  no  adequate  reply. 

She  walked  with  him  to  the  door  of  the  library  and 
watched  him  go  down  the  hall.  He  turned,  as  he 
opened  the  door,  for  a  last  look.  She  was  still  smil- 
ing that  steadfast  smile  which  made  her  seem  so 
close. 

Two  flights  below,  a  woman  with  a  harsh  voice 
wrangled  with  the  janitor.  The  elevator  came  rush- 
ing down  from  above.  The  negro  boy,  seeing  Lane 
standing  there,  jerked  the  machine  to  a  stop. 

"  Down ! "  he  bawled. 


CHAPTER  XX 

FRANK  AND  THE  STRANGER 

Lane  never  remembered  how  he  got  down  from 
Eunice's  door,  out  into  the  street,  across  the  Square 
to  his  rooms. 

There  come  dazed  moments  to  all  of  us  —  to  the 
wisest  as  surely  as  to  the  merely  learned  —  when  all 
our  habits  of  thought  break  down  and  there  is  noth- 
ing left  with  which  to  reason.  He  threw  himself 
down  on  his  divan,  bewildered,  seeking  desperately 
for  some  solid  thought  on  which  to  anchor  his  mind. 

At  last  one  clear  ray  of  light  shone  through  the 
tempestuous  clouds  which  covered  his  sky.  He  must 
go;  he  must  escape  from  this  hard  land,  from  these 
people  he  could  not  understand  —  who  thwarted  Love. 

Eunice  —  even  if  it  were  "  written  in  the  Book  " 
that  their  love  should  end  thus  abruptly  —  had 
changed  everything  for  him.  His  wanderings  were 
over.  There  was  no  more  any  reason  for  him  to 
search  further.  He  threw  into  a  corner  his  books 
about  China.  He  would  go  home.  He  would  go  to 
Marakesh  and  sit  a  while  beside  his  mother's  grave. 
He  could  not  remember  her;  but  now  she  seemed  very 
needful  to  him\     He  wanted  to  confide  in  her. 

Then  he  would  go  to  his  mountains.  This  de- 
cision gave  him  something  to  do.  It  was  some  relief 
to  puzzle  out  a  "  sailing  list,"  there  was  a  boat  for 

315 


316  THE  STRANGER 

Gibraltar  on  Saturday.  He  worked  feverishly,  sort- 
ing over  his  accumulation  of  books  and  papers. 
Most  of  them  went  into  the  fire  —  there  was  so  very 
little  that  had  any  meaning  left  for  him.  He  was 
unconscious  of  the  passage  of  time  and  so  was  sur- 
prised when  he  was  interrupted  by  a  knock  on  the 
door,  to  see  by  the  clock  that  it  was  mid-afternoon. 
The  visitor  was  Frank. 

Lane  had  been  entirely  unconscious  of  the  storm 
he  had  stirred  in  Frank.  Of  all  this  group  of  friends, 
Frank  was  the  heretic,  the  most  bitterly  dissatisfied 
with  their  manner  of  life.  He  had  no  reverence  for 
their  tribal  gods.  He  observed  their  taboos  only  be- 
cause the  rest  did.  This  Stranger  had  attracted  him 
by  outspoken  criticisms  of  these  gods.  The  little 
voice  had  urged  him  to  greater  intimacy,  but  he  had 
held  back  because  he  was  unaccustomed  to  people  who 
treated  shams  with  respect,  because  he,  himself,  was 
so  used  to  shams.  It  seemed  a  fearsomely  bold  thing, 
overbold,  to  talk  freely  with  a  person  who  questioned 
the  accepted  gods.  No  one  could  tell  where  such  a 
conversation  might  lead. 

Under  the  spell  of  an  entirely  unusual  passion  for 
Beauty,  Frank  had  put  his  neck  into  the  Yoke  of  the 
Usual.  The  traces  galled  him  acutely,  but  he  had  be- 
come tamed  —  harness  broken.  This  was  why  Lane 
attracted  and  frightened  him.  Frank  was  a  clean- 
limbed hunting  horse  used  for  hauling  a  dray.  Lane 
sounded  the  "  view  halloo !  "  Caution  told  him  not 
to  listen. 

But  he  had  had  a  dismal  luncheon  with  his  wife. 


FRANK  AND  THE  STRANGER        317 

Once  more  the  question  of  "  making  the  most  of  him- 
self "  had  been  drearily  fought  out.  He  had  escaped 
to  his  studio  and  tried  to  work,  but  even  the  semi- 
mechanical  task  of  drawing  Gulliver  and  the  horses 
would  not  go.  In  despair,  he  had  given  into  the 
little  voice,  which  egged  him  on.  "  What  harm  in 
getting  better  acquainted?  "  it  had  said.  "  You  can 
skirt  carefully  around  the  fringes  of  the  dangerous 
subjects.  You  don't  have  to  talk  about  the  things 
which  really  matter."  And  so  he  had  knocked  at  the 
Stranger's  door. 

With  the  observant  eye  of  the  artist,  he  noticed 
at  once  the  new  lines  in  Lane's  face.  "  My  God !  "  he 
said  to  himself,  "  this  man  is  suffering  too."  This 
realization  was  a  new  push  toward  intimacy.  "  He 
will  not  laugh,"  the  little  voice  said,  "  he  will  under- 
stand." 

"  Glad  you  came  in,"  Lane  greeted  him.  "  I  wanted 
to  see  you.  You  and  Mrs.  Lockwood  have  been  so  very 
kind  to  me.  And  Christmas  is  coming.  You  will  ac- 
cept, I  hope,  a  little  gift  —  a  souvenir.  Do  you  think 
your  wife  would  care  for  this  tea  tray?  It  is  a  rare 
kind.  It  is  Afghan  work.  The  Ka'id  of  Glawi 
brought  it  back  from  his  Hadj  and  gave  it  to  my 
father.  And  this  pile  of  pillows.  Perhaps,  if  I  left 
them  with  you,  you  would  have  them  give  the  Thanks- 
giving guests  —  with  a  kind  thought  from  me  — 
Christmas  presents?  I  am  afraid  I  will  not  have  time 
to  attend  to  it  myself  —  or  to  make  any  farewell 
calls." 

u  What? "  Frank  asked  in  surprise.  "  You're 
leaving  us?  " 


318  THE  STRANGER 

"  Yes,  I  sail  on  Saturday." 

"  Whv  are  you  going?  " 

Lane  shrugged  his  shoulders  vaguely. 

"Why  stay?" 

"  Oh !  Somehow  one  generally  does,"  Frank  said 
with  a  wry  smile,  trying  to  speak  lightly.  "  It's  sup- 
posed to  be  a  virtue  — '  to  stick.'  There's  something 
in  the  Bible  about  it  —  having  put  your  hand  to  the 
plow  you  mustn't  side-step  till  you've  reached  the 
end  of  the  furrow." 

"That's  all  right,"  Lane  replied,  "provided  you 
get  started  in  the  right  furrow." 

This  was  exactly  the  point  the  little  voice  was  al- 
ways bothering  Frank  about.  Was  he  in  the  right 
furrow?  In  spite  of  his  diffidence,  he  was  being 
sucked  at  once  into  the  vortex  of  his  problem. 

"  Yes,  but  how  to  get  out  —  when  once  you're  in 
wrong?  That's  the  question!  It  would  be  easy,  if 
you  could  see  the  right  furrow  clearly.  But  what  to 
do,  when  all  you  know  is  that  the  furrow  you're  in  is 
wrong?  That's  the  trouble.  You  don't  always  know 
where  the  right  furrow  is  —  where  it  begins  or  where 
it  leads.  Without  knowing  where  you  are  going  you 
get  started.  Everybody  stands  around  and  slaps  you 
on  the  back  and  says :  '  Stick  to  it,  old  man !  Don't 
be  a  quitter !     Stick ! ' 

"  Did  you  ever  read  '  Gulliver's  Travels '?  I'm  do- 
ing some  pictures  for  it.  It's  like  that  —  the  Lilli- 
putians. We're  all  tied  up  with  little  threads  — 
what's  expected  of  us.  We're  bound  hand  and  foot 
and    soul  —  by    these    expectations.     Tiny    threads, 


FRANK  AND  THE  STRANGER        319 

each  one  of  them.  Such  stupid  threads,  weak 
threads,  but  so  damned  many  of  them. 

"  Take  my  case.  I'm  a  man.  Nobody  asked  me  if 
I  wanted  to  be  a  man  —  nor  if  I  like  it.  But  thou- 
sands of  things  are  expected  of  me  —  just  because  I'm 
a  man.  I  happen  to  have  been  born  in  America.  I'm 
expected  to  be  a  citizen  —  to  take  an  interest  in 
politics.  I  don't  know  Tariff  from  Free  Trade,  but 
I'm  expected  to  pretend  I  do  and  vote  about  it.  I've 
a  host  of  friends  —  the  best  friends  in  the  world. 
But  they  don't  want  me  to  be  myself  —  they  want  me 
to  be  what  they  think  they  have  a  right  to  expect  of 
me.  I'm  married  —  more  binding  threads.  No  end 
of  things  are  expected  of  me  on  that  score.  Little 
things  —  each  one  a  tiny,  weak  thread  —  easy  to 
break,  but  so  many  of  them.  Here  a  little,  there  a 
little,  and  it  kills  the  soul. 

u  You're  lucky.  You  can  go.  If  you  stayed,  you'd 
get  tied  up,  too  —  in  the  expected  things.  Yes,  you're 
lucky.  You've  not  been  caught.  I  am.  I'm  ex- 
pected to  '  stick.'  And  just  as  sure  as  can  be  it  means 
death  —  death  to  everything  that  is  fine  in  me  — 
death  to  all  the  gods  have  given  me.  You're  free. 
You  can  go." 

"  Yes,"  Lane  said,  but  without  any  exultation  in 
his  voice,  "  I  can  go." 

He  thought  it  over  a  moment  and  then,  having 
conquered  the  catch  in  his  throat,  we  went  on : 

k  No,  I'm  not  bound  in  the  way  you  speak  of.  I 
would  not  stay  in  a  furrow  I  knew  was  wrong  because 
my  friends  expected  me  to  —  not  if  I  thought  it  would 


320  THE  STRANGER 

kill  my  soul.     I  would  think  more  of  what  God  —  you 
say  '  the  gods  ' —  expected  of  me." 

"  It's  a  frightful  tangle !  "  Frank  said  gloomily. 
"  All  these  little  threads !  Yes,  you're  lucky.  You 
take  an  ax  and  chop  the  Gordian  knot.  You  just 
walk  away.  But  I'm  expected  to  stick.  I'm  sen- 
tenced for  life." 

Lane  was  surprised  at  this  outbreak,  but,  too  numb 
from  his  own  despair,  he  did  not  reply.  This  free- 
dom of  his  to  go  which  Frank  seemed  to  envy  did  not 
seem  gay  to  him.  He  turned  away  to  open  a  box  of 
cigarettes.  For  a  moment  or  two  they  smoked  in 
silence. 

And  all  the  while  the  little  voice  kept  at  Frank. 
"  He's  leaving,"  it  said.  "  You'll  never  get  another 
chance.  Talk  to  him.  You'll  never  meet  another 
man  like  this  as  long  as  you  live."  And  Frank  wanted 
to  talk.  He  did  not  want  sympathy,  he  did  not  want 
advice.  But  a  great  load  would  be  lifted  from  him 
if  only  he  could  tell  some  one.  And  this  Stranger 
was  going  away  soon.  That  made  it  easier.  He  had 
not  expected  to  talk  about  Lillian  when  he  came,  but 
before  he  knew  it,  he  was  doing  so  —  once  started  he 
had  to  go  on. 

"  Of  course,  most  of  all,  it's  the  wife.  Years  ago, 
I  found  a  woman  who  was  beautiful  —  the  most  beau- 
tiful woman,  I  think,  the  gods  ever  made.  And  I 
worship  beauty.  Every  bit  of  me  wanted  to  fall  down 
and  adore.  The  only  way  they  would  let  me  worship 
was  to  take  her  to  church  and  tell  a  crowd  of  people, 
who  weren't  interested.     A  lot  of  vows  —  my  furrow. 

"  It's  good  to  worship.     You  know  that.     I  was 


FRANK  AND  THE  STRANGER        321 

willing  to  do  anything  they  asked,  if  they'd  let  me 
worship.  I  wasn't  niggardly  about  it.  I  didn't  try 
to  bargain.  I  just  gave  all  I  had,  all  I  hoped  to  be. 
"  Well,  they  put  us  in  the  same  house !  My  God, 
if  only  we  could  have  been  a  little  apart !  If  I  could 
have  gone  to  her  every  Sunday,  as  one  goes  to  mass 

—  but  in  the  same  house 

"  I  don't  believe  it's  possible  to  worship  at  close 
quarters.  You  can't  worship  what  teases  for  a  new 
hat  or  cries  for  a  motor  car.  And  when  you  can't 
worship  —  it's  fierce !  Pretty  soon  you  forget  how. 
But  still  they  expect  us  to  go  on  living  in  the  same 
house. 

"  Of  course,  the  wife's  only  part  of  it.  It's  all  the 
people  I  know  —  close  friends,  mere  business  ac- 
quaintances —  they've  all  pasted  labels  on  me,  expect 
certain  things  of  me.  Oh,  I  try  to  understand  —  but 
it  isn't  a  net  that  you  can  straighten  out  —  these  little 
threads,  it's  just  a  tangle.  There's  the  wife's  mother 
and  what  she  expects  and  what  she  taught  her  daugh- 
ter to  expect  of  a  husband.  My  mother  and  what  she 
taught  me  to  expect  of  a  wife.  And  all  the  books  the 
wife  and  I  have  read  —  they  taught  us  to  expect 
things.     Our  grandmothers  and  great-grandmothers 

—  I  suppose,  it  goes  clear  back  to  the  monkeys. 
Probably  they  made  each  other  miserable  in  the  same 
way. 

"  Shams !  That's  the  worst  of  it.  Nobody  wants 
truth.  All  these  little  threads  are  expectations  that 
you'll  lie  —  say  the  thing  which  is  false,  pretend 
you're  what  you  aren't.  Pretense!  Lies!  —  to  the 
end  of  the  furrow ! 


322  THE  STRANGER 

"God,  how  I  hate  it  all!  Isn't  there  any  chance 
of  truth?  Why,  even  Win  —  my  best  friend  —  would 
be  shocked  to  death  if  I  talked  like  this  to  him,  told 
the  truth.  I'm  expected  to  love  my  wife  —  or  pre- 
tend to!  Nobody  cares  whether  I  do  or  not.  It's 
only  the  pretense  that's  demanded. 

"  If  I  were  wildly  in  love  with  some  other  woman  — 
quite  crazy  —  he'd  do  what  they  call  i  making  allow- 
ances.' But  as  long  as  I'm  not  insane  about  some 
other  woman,  I'm  expected  to  '  sit  tight.'  i  You've 
made  your  bed,'  he'd  say, '  you  must  sleep  in  it ' —  and 
he'd  never  realize  what  horror  that  means! 

"  I'm  not  in  love  with  any  one  else.  I  haven't  that 
facile  excuse.  So  I'm  expected  '  to  stick.'  No  one 
would  understand  that  all  I  want  is  to  be  let  alone 
—  to  try  to  be  myself.  To  worship  my  own  gods  — 
in  my  own  way. 

"  It's  hopeless  to  try  to  make  them  understand. 
But  I  want  to  beat  it.  I  want  to  jump  out  —  leave 
this  rotten  furrow  —  start  again.  I  know  I'll  die  if 
I  stick  —  all  that's  good  in  me  —  all  the  soul  I  have. 
I  want  to " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  tongue-tied,  aghast  at  his 
own  words.  Never,  even  to  himself,  had  he  stated  so 
baldly  the  obvious  way  out  of  his  difficulties.  He  was 
startled,  thrilled,  and  a  little  terrified  at  the  vision 
of  freedom  his  words  called  up.  But  according  to  all 
the  accepted  canons,  Lane  ought  to  remonstrate  with 
him.  He  waited  sullenly,  defiantly,  for  the  expected 
words  of  reproof.     But  Lane  was  in  no  hurry. 

"  Does  your  wife  love  you?  "  he  asked  at  last. 


FRANK  AND  THE  STRANGER        323 

His  question  echoed  those  of  the  little  voice  un- 
cannily. 

"  Does  she?  I'm  always  asking  myself  that.  Not 
what  I  mean  by  love.  No.  And  yet  —  in  her  own 
way  —  perhaps  she  does.  She  doesn't  understand  me 
at  all,  but  she's  made  up  her  mind  what  I  ought  to  be. 
It  isn't  just  crude  money  selfishness.  It's  more  sub- 
tle than  that.  The  money's  only  a  symbol.  She 
hasn't  tried  to  find  out  what  I'd  like  to  be,  but  she 
knows  what  she  wants.  She  wants  me  '  to  make  the 
most  of  myself.'     That's  a  pet  phrase  of  hers. 

"  I  could  make  the  money  she  asks  for.  It  would 
mean  painting  pretty  pictures  of  ugly  women,  self- 
advertising,  bootlicking,  invitations  to  smart  house 
parties  —  that  sort  of  thing  —  a  big  noise!  That's 
what  she  thinks  would  be  <  making  the  most  of  myself.' 
I  could  do  it.  Most  people  think  I  should.  I  prob- 
ably will,  if  I  take  their  advice  —  do  the  expected 
thing  — '  stick.' 

"  But  it  would  kill  me.  It  would  be  the  unforgiv- 
able sin  —  the  sin  of  the  priest  whose  only  creed  is 
his  greed  —  his  empty  belly  to  fill  —  who  sells  his 
god  in  driblets  —  thirty  pieces  of  silver  a  month ! 
It  would  kill  everything  in  me  which  is  anywhere 
near  divine." 

"  We  must  be  very  tender  to  women,"  Lane  said, 
after  a  thoughtful  pause.  "What  would  happen  to 
your  wife  if  you  left  her?  " 

"Oh,  I  suppose  she'd  be  unhappy  —  for  a  while. 
Of  course  she  would.  Every  one  would  expect  her  to 
be  unhappy.     She's  just  as  much  tied  up  in  this  mat- 


324  THE  STRANGE i; 

ter  as  I.  Every  one  would  tell  her  she  had  been 
treated  shamefully.  It  isn't  exactly  a  compliment  to 
have  your  husband  desert  you.  Her  mother  did  not 
want  her  to  marry  me.  She'd  say  '  I  told  you  so.' 
Of  course  she'd  be  unhappy. 

"  But  she'd  go  home  and  live  with  her  parents  — 
they're  rich  now  —  and  very  fond  of  her.  And  after 
a  while  she'd  marry  a  banker  and  be  happier  — 
much !  " 

Lane  started  to  light  his  hubble-bubble  pipe  and 
had  some  difficulty  getting  it  to  draw.  He  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  Frank  for  the  moment.  Then  he 
suddenly  asked  a  question  which  seemed  irrelevant: 

"  Do  you  believe  in  a  life  after  death  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  no !  I  guess  this  is  all  we  can  count 
on.  Of  course,  there's  a  '  perhaps  ' ;  but  it's  too  vague 
to  matter.     Why  do  you  ask?  " 

Lane  seemed  to  be  turning  an  answer  over  in  his 
mind. 

"  It  seems  to  me  —  well  —  of  course,  I  do  believe 
in  what  you  call  '  the  perhaps.'  Yes,  I  believe  in 
something  beyond  the  grave."  He  hesitated  again  and 
then,  as  though  he  had  found  a  path  through  a  tangle 
of  thought,  he  went  on  more  readily :  "  The  Christians 
believe  in  a  heaven  and  hell  —  and  their  God  orders 
them  to  mutilate  themselves  here  below  in  order  to 
deserve  a  lasting  happiness  above;  St.  Simon  Stylites 
and  that  kind.  If  you  believe  that  this  life  is  only  a 
dot  with  a  limitless  everlasting  beyond,  and  that  it 
pleases  your  God  to  see  you  scourge  your  body  —  if 
you  believe  your  God  wants  you  to  suffer  and  will  re- 
ward you  for  your  self-inflicted  pain  —  why,  then  it  is 


FRANK  AND  THE  STRANGER        325 

simple.  For  painful  duties  in  this  short  life  you  are 
promised  eternal  bliss.  There  would  be  no  problem 
at  all.     Only  a  fool  would  hesitate. 

"  But  if  you  do  not  believe  this  —  if  you  do  not  be- 
lieve in  any  existence  beyond  the  grave  —  why,  I 
think  the  most  important  thing  of  all  would  be  to 
save  your  soul  alive  —  at  least  till  the  body  dies." 

Frank  paced  nervously  back  and  forth  through  the 
room.  Lane,  seated  cross-legged  on  the  divan,  smoked 
unmoving,  lost  in  his  own  thoughts,  hardly  conscious 
of  the  distressed  presence  before  him. 

The  early  twilight  of  December  fell  abruptly.  The 
electric  arc  lights  sputtered  into  life  and  glowed  out- 
side on  the  snow-covered  Square.  The  room  was  quite 
dark  when  Frank,  stopping  suddenly,  broke  the  si- 
lence. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

Lane  shook  himself  out  of  his  reverie. 

"  Me?  Oh,  I'm  going  home,  back  to  my  own  coun- 
t  r\  —  Morocco  —  to  my  little  farm  up  in  the  Glawi. 
You  would  love  the  place,  because  you  love  Beauty. 
If  that  is  your  god,  you  would  find  it  a  Holy  Land. 

"  It  is  not  much  of  a  house  —  no  modern  comforts. 
But  just  outside  the  door  there  is  a  little  stream  — 
the  clearest  water  you  ever  saw  — '  fresh  melted  from 
the  snows  above ' —  a  musical  little  stream.  It  runs 
through  my  garden  —  oranges  and  olives  and  almonds 
—  and  melons  —  the  sweet  rock  melons  of  the  hills. 
And  beyond  the  garden,  the  little  stream  tumbles 
over  the  ledge  —  down  into  the  valley.  Yes,  it  is  very 
beautiful. 

"  And  no  one  binds  you  with  little  threads  —  as  you 


326  THE  STRANGER 

say  they  do  here.     One's  prayers  are  not  interrupted. 

"  There  is  a  flat  roof  to  my  house,  where  one  can 
sit  and  watch  the  lights  on  the  snow  of  the  Great 
Atlas  —  across  the  valley.  There  are  no  modern  com- 
forts, but  there  is  peace. " 

"  Is  there  an  extra  room?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  Of  course !  Even  the  poorest  among  us 
has  room  for  the  guest.     Come,  you  will  be  welcome." 

Frank  began  again  his  nervous  pacing.  Suddenly, 
harshly,  the  telephone  bell  rang.  Lane  glared  at 
it  indignantly  for  a  minute.  Then,  thinking  it  might 
be  a  message  from  Eunice,  he  sprang  to  answer  it. 

"  Yes,"  Frank  heard  him  say,  "  this  is  Lane.  .  .  . 
Oh,  Miss  Cash?  .  .  .  I'll  come,  at  once." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ADIEU 

When  Lane  had  left  Eunice  that  morning,  Jenny, 
the  Jamaican  maid,  had  felt  aggrieved.  She  had 
sensed  a  romance  in  the  air  and  wanted  to  overhear. 
But  their  voices  in  the  library  had  been  too  low.  In 
peevishness  she  had  made  more  than  necessary  noise 
with  the  dishes.  When  he  had  come  down  the  hall  to 
leave  she  had  stopped  her  clatter  and  strained  her 
ears.  But  there  had  been  no  farewell  that  she  could 
hear. 

"  Goin'  away  without  sayin'  '  good-by,'  "  she  had 
commented  to  herself.  "  Them  mus'  'a'  'ad  confu- 
sion.    White  folks  is " 

But  her  verdict  on  the  ways  of  the  white  folk  had 
been  interrupted  by  a  crash  in  the  library.  She  won- 
dered for  a  second  if  her  mistress  of  the  gentle  voice 
had  taken  to  smashing  the  furniture.  Then  fear 
laid  hold  of  her  and  she  rushed  to  bear  aid.  Eunice 
lay,  an  inert  mass,  on  the  floor.  Her  face  was  white, 
past  any  semblance  of  life.  It  took  Jenny  several 
minutes  to  collect  her  wits,  pick  her  up,  and  telephone 
to  Helen. 

Dusk  had  already  fallen  when  Eunice  regained  con- 
sciousness. In  the  second  before  she  opened  her  eyes 
a  realization  came  to  her  —  a  certainty.  It  was  only 
verified  by  the  sight  of  Dr.  Riggs  beside  her  bed,  of 

327 


328  THE  STRANGER 

the  white-clad  nurse,  and  of  Helen's  strained,  anxious 
face. 

She  smiled  at  them  all  a  moment,  comprehendingly 

—  reassuringly.  Her  voice,  though  weak,  was  very 
clear. 

"  I  won't  bother  you  much  longer.  It  has  come  at 
last."  She  was  so  evidently  unafraid  that  the  doctor 
did  not  try  to  deceive  her. 

"Well,"  she  said,  with  a  note  which  was  almost 
gay  in  her  voice,  "  I'd  like  to  see  him." 

This  request  was  a  new  dart  in  Helen's  already 
torn  heart,  a  new  pang  of  jealousy.  Even  Eunice, 
who  had  always  depended  so  on  her,  turned  away  in 
this  supreme  moment  to  some  one  else. 

In  spite  of  the  pain,  Helen's  mind  set  efficiently  to 
work.  It  was  some  comfort  to  her  in  her  misery  to 
know  that  when  she  was  needed  she  did  not  lose  her 
head.  As  she  turned  to  the  door,  a  detailed  plan  of 
campaign  to  find  Lane  matured  in  her  mind.  If  he 
were  not  in  his  rooms,  she  would  telephone  to  Ali 
Zaky  Bey  at  the  consulate.  She  would  dispatch  Win 
and  Frank  and  Lancaster  in  search  of  him. 

Eunice  was  happier  than  she  had  ever  been.     Now 

—  now  that  she  was  so  sure,  no  one  could  blame  her 
for  her  love.  She  had  a  right  to  show  it  openly. 
It  was  almost  like  a  marriage  ceremony  —  a  public 
announcement.  The  joyous  pride  of  it  brought  a 
faint  color  to  her  cheeks. 

She  asked  the  nurse  if  they  had  found  a  piece  of 
paper  in  her  blouse  with  verses  on  it.  Yes,  they  had 
put  it  under  her  pillow.  This  seemed  to  satisfy  all 
her  wishes. 


ADIEU  329 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  lose  it,"  she  said.  "  I  want  it 
buried  with  me." 

"  He's  coming,"  Helen  said,  as  she  returned  from 
the  telephone. 

"  Doctor,"  Eunice  said,  "  can't  you  give  me  some- 
thing—  just  a  little  something  —  a  little  time?" 

"  How  soon  will  he  get  here?  "  he  asked  Helen. 

"  Right  away.     It's  just  across  the  Square." 

The  nurse,  anticipating  the  order,  stepped  forward 
with  a  tray,  covered  with  bottles  and  bright  silver  in- 
struments. 

"You  are  all  so  kind,"  Eunice  said,  as  Dr.  Riggs 
pressed  a  bit  of  cotton  to  her  wrist  where  the  needle 
had  pricked  her.  ■  So  very,  very  kind.  And  you  — 
Helen  —  most  of  all.  You  mustn't  cry,  dear.  I'm  so 
happy." 

The  doorbell  rang  and  Helen  hurried  away  to  let 
him  in. 

Helen  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  their  greeting. 
She  stood,  wet-eyed,  in  the  hallway  and  waited  —  and 
waited.  After  a  few  eternities  the  nurse  came  to  the 
door  and  beckoned  to  her. 

The  doctor  stood  by  the  window.  Lane  had  taken 
his  place  beside  the  bed.  Eunice,  whose  calm  and 
joyous  smile  seemed  uncanny  to  Helen,  beckoned  with 
her  free  hand.  Her  voice  was  very  weak  now.  As 
Helen  bent  over  her  to  kiss  her,  she  whispered : 

"  Isn't  it  wonderful  ?  He  came  just  in  time  —  from 
the  ends  of  the  earth.  Tell  them  —  I  want  you  to 
tell  all  the  dear  friends  —  not  to  pity  me.  I'm  so 
very  happy." 


330  THE  STRANGER 

She  smiled  at  them  all  once  more.  Her  eyes  sought 
her  Beloved.  And  then  she  closed  them  very  gently. 
She  put  the  last  faint  tremor  of  her  strength  into  the 
hand  he  held  —  and  went  her  way. 

The  doctor  did  not  notice  her  departure  so  quickly 
as  Lane.  He  knew  at  once.  He  stood  up,  kissed  the 
hand  he  had  held,  and  laid  it  back  beside  her  on  the 
bed.  Then,  not  realizing  that  his  act  was  anything 
unusual,  he  opened  the  windows.  For  thus,  in  the 
East,  it  has  ever  been  the  custom  of  the  best  beloved 
to  give  the  dear  departing  soul  a  clear  exit,  a  free 
passage  to  its  new  home. 

"  If  you  do  not  mind,  I  will  recite  Fatihah." 

He  stretched  out  his  hands  in  the  attitude  of  prayer 
and  intoned  the  sonorous  Arabic. 

"El-hamdu-l'illah! 
Arbi  el-Aleemeen, 
Er-Rameen,    Er-Raheem p 

It  was  as  though  he  had  cast  a  spell  over  these  Un- 
believers. No  one  of  them  moved  until  he  had  fin- 
ished. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  glancing  once  more  at  the  face  he 
had  loved,  "  I  will  go." 

Helen  walked  with  him  to  the  door.  It  seemed  nec- 
essary to  say  something.  She  had  a  sure  feeling  that 
she  would  never  see  him  again.  The  only  words 
which  came  to  her  were  not  at  all  what  she  would  have 
liked  to  say. 

"  I  thought  you  said  the  Fatihah  was  a  prayer  of 
Thanksgiving?  " 

"  It  is.     The  Most  Merciful  has  given  her  peace !  " 


EPILOGUE 

The  funeral  was  on  Saturday  morning.  The 
Stranger  watched  from  a  distance  till  the  carriages 
had  driven  away.  His  boat  sailed  at  sundown  and 
he  sat  alone  beside  the  grave  all  the  afternoon. 

Through  the  evening,  hour  after  hour,  he  paced  the 
deck,  watching  the  flash  of  Sandy  Hook  grow  fainter 
and  fainter.  Frank,  his  arm  around  a  stanchion, 
leaned  over  the  rail. 

Almost  as  silently  Win  sat  with  Helen  in  her 
library.     There  was  nothing  for  anybody  to  say. 

At  last  Helen  bestirred  herself  and  brought  from 
her  desk  a  sheet  of  paper. 

"  He  sent  her  some  verses  —  that  last  day.  I 
thought  you  might  like  to  see  them.     Here's  a  copy." 

"  A  commentary  by  Sidi  Abd  er  Raheem  Roumi  on  the  proverb : 
"  If  the  seed  did  not  die,  there  would  be  no  plant; 
"If  the  flower  did  not  fade,  there  would  be  no  fruit." 

Alas!    The  spring  brings  pain! 

The  tender  bark  is  torn  by  bursting  buds. 

The  branches  agonize  with  urgent  sap, 
The  world  from  winter's  deathlike  sleep  awakes. 

Rejoice!     The  buds  give  birth! 
The  blossoms  burst  to  eager,  joyous  life. 
In  pain  unspeakable  the  mothers  moan. 
New  generations  come,  the  old  must  die. 
331 


332  THE  STRANGER 

Alas!     The  flowers  are  sick! 

The  roses  fade,  the  peachbloom  wilts. 

The  falling  petals  praise  the  Lord  and  bid 
Us  hope.     For  after  them  the  harvest  comes. 

Rejoice!     The  fruit  is  ripe! 

The  branches  bend.     The  flow'ring  time  is  past. 

By  sacrificial  death  our  joy  is  bought  — 
Each  luscious  peach  has  cost  a  wilted  bloom. 

Alas!     The  summer's  gone! 

The  orchard's  bare  —  but  now  the  barns  are  full. 
Rejoice!     The  harvest's  home! 

But,  brother  — thank,  oh,  thank  the  fallen  bloom! 


THE  END 


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